


Ready. Set. Bake.

by Cryptand_Bismol



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Baking, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Eventual Romance, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Inspired by The Great British Bake Off, Love Confessions, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Romance, just pure fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 73,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23771503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptand_Bismol/pseuds/Cryptand_Bismol
Summary: Crowley knows he can bake better than most, and he can definitely bake better than that last lot of amateurs on The Great British Bake Off, and he wants to prove it. It's no surprise to him that he ends up on the show, but the cute baker in the tartan bow-tie was something he hadn't been expecting."Looking around the tent it suddenly became much more real that he was actually on The Great British Bake Off. Sure, the application forms had been extensive, and the screen tests that followed were awkward, and coming up with the future bakes worse than studying for a PhD, but this was the real kicker; standing with eleven other bakers in a swelteringly hot tent with the presenters readying them to bake."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 79
Kudos: 110





	1. Week 1 - Cake Week

**Author's Note:**

> It turns out I don’t have much to do in quarantine except watch Bake Off all day and write this. I’ve kept the names of judges and presenters as ambiguous as possible so take your pick at who is judging them. To be honest you don't really need to have watched the show to read this 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a baker. Most of these bakes are either things actually made on the bake off or flavours google says go together. And for clarification the tasks are; Drizzle Cake – Signature; Angel Cake Slices – Technical; Chocolate Cake – Showstopper. 
> 
> Did anyone else use to have a tiny, and I mean like A8, size address book back in the day? Both my mum and my grandma did, and they were adorable, and I’m sure that’s as far as Aziraphale’s definition of mobile goes. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Chapter 1! I have 11 planned (10 weeks + epilogue) and should have the next chapter up in the next few days. Thanks for reading!

Looking around the tent it suddenly became much more real that he was actually on The Great British Bake Off. Sure, the application forms had been extensive, and the screen tests that followed were awkward, and coming up with the future bakes worse than studying for a PhD, but this was the real kicker; standing with eleven other bakers in a swelteringly hot tent with the presenters readying them to bake. He’d met the others fleetingly before, of course, snippets of conversation here and there as they waited in the green room or passed each other in the corridor. Crowley tried to be civil, even if the sheer cheeriness of the others was exhausting. A few greetings and snatches of small talk here and there and he was back to looking like he was doing something vitally important on his phone when actually playing shitty games. Some seemed alright to be fair, like the woman wearing the leaf-print romper, and the cheery hipster bloke who he was sure was wearing an actual toga. And the truly gorgeous man in the bowtie, of course, lovely blonde curls and lovely round hips and lovely bright smile; Crowley had christened him Angel in his head.

Said Angel was at the bench in front of him now, fingers fidgeting with something in his hands while the presenters did their little piece over and over again to perfection. Crowley was right at the back, and he had sudden memories of him being at school and not giving a toss about whatever lesson was being taught. A lot had changed since then, he thought, considering the dedication it took to get to this point of the competition. It was a shame really then, that he was getting just as side-tracked by a handsome man as he always did. So absorbed he was in appreciating the everything-ness of him that he didn’t realise they had begun until he saw Angel measuring out his flour with a very distracting wiggle.

* * *

The first bake was easy, cake week as always, and was to produce a simple drizzle cake in two hours. He chose a classic lemon and poppy seed, one he’d long since timed to perfection. Maybe he could have been more adventurous with his flavours, but there really was no need to try so hard in the first week and potentially flop. Soon enough he was sliding his cake into the oven, the camera man making sure to film it egregiously and hounding him with questions about his baking time, only managing to delay him working on his syrup. Still, the cameras eventually left him alone and he managed to finish with time to spare, idly tasting his drizzle while watching the other bakers work.

The woman in the leaf playsuit - Eve, he recalled - seemed to be happy enough at the bench next to him, slicing apples while humming a little tune. The cameras, obviously liking the moment, rushed over to zoom in obnoxiously on her face and then her chopping board. They prompted her with some question or other and she happily answered it, rambling about how she and her husband met at an apple orchard. He couldn’t see much of what the other bakers were doing, just the back of their heads; there were three young bakers, no older than twenty, and one of them he was sure couldn’t be older than sixteen; hipster man was right at the front, with a rather shabby looking man at the bench beside him, and a woman with a stupidly elaborate up-do behind him. None of them seemed particularly stressed yet, though he was sure that would change come the technical. Sighing, he turned back to the Angel in front of him, watching him taste almost every element of his cake before moving on to make an impressive spun sugar piece.

* * *

There was a small wait between judging, just enough time to tidy up the benches before presenting, but soon he was watching them tour the room tasting cake after cake. It had been a mixed bag so far, some bakers lacking in flavour and others poorly cooked, but Angel had got bright smiles and compliments all round. Crowley wasn’t too worried when the judges tasted his, knowing fine well his cake was delicious, and was proved smugly right when they praised his perfect bake and flavour. Crowley looked up once they had gone, just a curious glance really, and found Angel was watching him, gracing him with a blinding smile. He smiled dumbly back and gave him a very awkward thumbs up that he hoped seemed somewhat endearing.

The judges began to speak again, and they both turned to watch as Eve’s cake was deemed heavy and close textured, with no apple flavour, and winced in sympathy.

The cameras stopped rolling after getting a close up of Eve’s downtrodden expression and a general shot of the bakers idling about, and soon they were being ushered to the green room to wait. The Angel had taken his time setting aside his apron and was one of the last to leave the tent, and Crowley took the opportunity to drop back from the bunch approach him, “Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” he said lowly.

The man startled and looked at him bemused, “Er, sorry?”

“Eve’s cake. Went down like a lead balloon.”

“Oh! Yes, quite right, the poor dear.”

“But, ah, yours seemed to go well, er-?”

“It’s Aziraphale,” he smiled, holding his hand out to shake awkwardly as they walked. Crowley couldn’t help but notice how soft his hands were, “And yes, thankfully! I wasn’t sure it would taste as good without the spun sugar, but it all worked out in the end.”

Crowley frowned, “Eh? I thought I saw you making some earlier?”

At this Aziraphale looked around sheepishly and fiddled with the ring on his pinky finger, then he leaned in and said quietly, “If you must know, I gave it away.”

“You what?”

“I gave it away. To Eve. I just, oh, I could tell that apple wouldn’t work, especially all plain like that without another flavour to draw it out! And well, what’s the harm really? A bit of spun sugar? I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”

Crowley was a little awestruck, “I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

“Oh thank you. Thank you! It really has been bothering me, er, oh! And I never got your name, how rude of me!”

“No worries, Angel, it’s Crowley,” he said thoughtlessly.

“Angel?”

“Ah. Well. Yes. Not many people giving away their spun sugar around here. Seemed pretty angelic to me.”

Aziraphale blushed, but had a pleased smile on his face, “Oh, well thank you, my dear.”

* * *

They sat together in the green room while the technical was being set up, but where the other bakers were musing at what it could be they were chatting about themselves. Crowley soon learned Aziraphale owned a bookshop in Soho and loved everything to do with books and food and books about food. He was fussy and liked to ramble and was prone to worrying but Crowley was enthralled, hanging on his every word. The way emotions played out across his face was mesmerising, and he found his new goal was to make Aziraphale smile like that forever. He found himself opening up to this virtual stranger, telling him all about his multitude of half-careers, his plant nursery, his rare painting commissions, and his occasional stint with Uber. Aziraphale giggled, actually giggled, at his story about pranking his old co-worker Ligur, and outright chortled when he told him about the origin of his snake tattoo.

All too soon though they were being called back into the tent, gingham cloths ominously covering the secret ingredients. As soon as the presenters announced the bake as angel cake slices, Aziraphale gave him a delighted look over his shoulder, and Crowley couldn’t help but grin at him, mouthing “Good luck, Angel.”

He hoped they didn’t catch that on camera.

* * *

The bake went well for both of them, even with the cameraman trying to get shots of them at every stage of baking. So far he’d only had to mumble to the lens about how he knows exactly how to make angel cake slices and not sound like the smug bastard he was. Aziraphale did it much better, claiming he had never baked one but had eaten a few in his time; the viewer were always enthralled by the will-he-won’t-he of that statement.

But it was finished now, and as Crowley brought his up to the table he got an odd sort of thrill at seeing his and Aziraphale’s pictures next to each other. Even more so when Aziraphale smiled widely at him and sat right beside him on the stools, thighs pressed impossibly close together. He thanked someone the tent was hot enough to excuse his reddened cheeks.

As the judges ate their way through the cakes, Crowley was delighted to hear Aziraphale’s praised and he patted the blonde on the back in congratulations. He really wasn’t expecting Aziraphale to beam at him and lean more into his side, before nonchalantly turning back to the judges. Crowley barely even heard his own cake come third and his Angel’s come first.

* * *

Of all things it was a minibus that would take them back to the hotel for the night. Crowley longed for the Bentley, longed to be able to suavely offer Aziraphale a lift home, but no, the Bake-Off Bus it was. He was seated already, having wormed his way out of an evening interview, but Aziraphale and Eve, first and last respectively, had to do another half-hour of filming after an already gruelling day. He made a mental note to get Aziraphale a glass of wine tonight for his troubles.

It was dark by the time he finally climbed on the bus, but he still managed to throw Crowley a grateful smile as he sat tiredly down next to him in the saved seat.

“Well, I didn’t quite expect these days to be so long,” Aziraphale said, occasionally bumping into Crowley’s side as the bus trundled along.

“It’s TV Angel, they need to draw out the drama. I’m surprised they don’t film us back at the hotel, people love all that behind the scenes crap.”

“I’m glad they don’t, my dear. I suspect they wouldn’t approve of the amount of wine I plan on consuming this evening.”

Crowley laughed, “You read my mind. Already decided on a Madeira.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up, “Oh, scrumptious! You know, I heard the hotel restaurant does a darling little cheese platter that would go perfectly.”

“An evening of wine and cheese, count me in Angel.”

* * *

Even the mild headache still present for the 5am wake-up call couldn’t make Crowley regret the evening. It was extraordinary how well they got on after less than a day; they had been laughing long after the other had retired to bed and had been reluctant to leave each other’s company until the early hours.

Still, he didn’t want to ruin his image by appearing too giddy, so he tried to remain cool and suave as he ambled down to breakfast. Aziraphale was already up, tucking into a croissant slathered with lemon curd, a pot of tea cooling at his elbow.

He beamed at Crowley when he entered, ushering him over, “Good morning Crowley,”

“Hey, Angel,” he failed to suppress a grin. He excused himself for a moment to get a mug of strong black coffee but was soon seated with him at the table. Some of the other bakers were around, mostly in small groups but one or two sat alone.

“How are you feeling for today’s bake?” Aziraphale asked, sipping at his tea.

“Hmm, pretty good. Hard to go wrong with a chocolate cake. I’m doing a Red Velvet Devil’s Food Cake.”

He smiled at Crowley fondly, “Very much your style, my dear.”

“And you?”

Fussing with his napkin, he said, “I’m worried mine is too simple, actually. It’s a Malted Milk Chocolate Cake. With malt buttercream of course.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I haven’t heard of anyone using malt yet. Will probably be amazing if it’s anything like your signature. Besides, it’s the first week. As long as it’s baked and doesn’t taste shit then you’ll be fine.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Of course. You’ll be fine regardless, anyway, after Eve’s disastrous day.”

“I do suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale smiled and went back to merrily eating his pastry.

Crowley stared, enjoying the show he seemed to make of eating; he’d seen this last night too, crackers piled high with cheese and meats sliding past those rosy lips and not to mention the noises, the little moans of genuine pleasure from the taste, the texture. It was mesmerising.

His coffee was long cold by the time Aziraphale had finished, ending the show with a lick of his lemon coated lips.

* * *

There was a quiet hush over the minibus to the showstopper challenge, most bakers groggy from the early wake up call. Aziraphale was quiet, but seemed content rather than worried, lightly humming a tune under his breath. Crowley was happy to alternate between watching him and the blooming of summer out of the window, almost forgetting they had hours of intense baking to come.

They were all at the same benches as yesterday and the same clothes for that matter, for continuity’s sake apparently, as though the viewers didn’t know it was filmed across the whole weekend. His jacket smelled a little too much of the wine he’d sloshed on his sleeve last night, and only hoped the smell of baking masked it a little but judging by the frown of the cameraman filming over his shoulder it hadn’t quite succeeded. Oh well, maybe it would stop him being filmed too frequently today.

He chanced a glance at Aziraphale’s bench and was not surprised to catch him in the process of tasting some of his chocolate malt mix from a teaspoon, almost sipping it like a connoisseur. Endeared, he held back a smile while perusing the rest of the competition, idly noting the presence of apples once again at Eve’s bench. The man with the curled moustache – Bill, or Will, he struggled to remember – was looking a little worse for wear, furiously mixing what appeared to be his second cake batter and had several cameras trying to catch the only drama going on in the tent. The cameraman from his own bench had apparently been drafted in to cover more angles, and he was now mercifully unwatched for the first time today.

“Angel,” he half-whispered across the aisle in the interim, “Aziraphale!”

“Hmm, yes dear?” he replied absently, eyes scanning his recipe while he whisked something delicious looking in a ceramic bowl.

“How’s it going?” Crowley asked, enjoying the way Aziraphale’s brow was furrowed in concentration, “All on time?”

“Rather,” he finished stirring his mix with a little flourish, setting the whisk aside and turned towards Crowley, bowl in hand, “Would you be a darling and taste this, please? I’d be ever so grateful.”

“Of course,” Crowley took the opportunity to slide away from his oven, rounded the counter and leaning back against it as he swiped a finger through the buttercream and licked it clean, “Mmm, that’s good, Angel, like really good. Might have to step my game up!”

“Oh, nonsense. I’m sure yours tastes marvellous. In fact – oh, if it’s not too much trouble – I could sample some?”

Crowley had presented the bowl of red ermine icing to him before he even finished the sentence, “Go ahead. Just a warning though, I might have added a hint of chili.”

Aziraphale pulled his tasting spoon out again from somewhere in his apron, and delightedly scooped a small spoonful to taste, “Oh goodness!” he exclaimed around his mouthful, “Oh, Crowley, that is divine! The chili, with the sweet frosting, hmm, sublime!”

There were those noises again, and this time from something Crowley had made; it made him flush red at the thought. He reigned himself in, clearing his throat before saying, “Ah, I should hope it’s not divine, it is Devil’s Food Cake, after all.”

“Quite so! Well devilish then,” he beamed, and for a moment they just looked happily at one another.

“Bakers, you have fifteen minutes!” the presenters called, breaking their spell. Aziraphale flashed another smile at him, before retreating back to his own bake.

* * *

Aziraphale did wonderfully, again, his flavours praised to the point the judges asked for the recipe, and Crowley felt a swell of pride in his chest for his friend, and a swell of something else at the bashful but ecstatic smile.

Crowley was still grinning when he brought up his cake, and it only grew more teeth as one of the judges was practically sweating from his chocolate chili icing. Other than that they seemed to enjoy it; his bake was technically perfect.

After a few extra shots of the bakers opening and closing ovens and fridges as though they were still baking, they were sent to wait in the green room while they cleaned up and occasionally pulled people aside to interview. Crowley was just congratulating Aziraphale on his bake when he someone tapped on his shoulder and robbed him of enjoying that smile a bit longer. Why they wanted Crowley’s opinion on camera was anybody’s guess.

“Ok,” the aide said, guiding him to a cameraman with a suitably pretty scene in front of them, “I’ll ask you some questions from off-screen and you answer as if it was unprompted, alright?”

“Uh, sure,” he ran a hand through his hair, a little uneasy at being so up close with the lens. It had been years since he’d stopped wearing his sunglasses everywhere to hide his rather unusual eyes, but the anxiety was rearing its ugly head again.

“So,” began the aide after he was all mic’ed up, “Tell us what you thought before judging, your hopes, fears, etc.”

“Er, well, I guess,” he cleared his throat, “I think I have the flavour down, it might be a bit spicy, but I like things hot. As for the bake, I’m pretty sure it have it perfect. Really happy with the texture and the rise.”

“Brilliant, did we get that? Yeah, fab, we got that, just maybe a little louder for the next one, ok? Ok,” the man garbled out, “Tell us what you think of the judges’ comments. Are you worried? Are you pleased? Do you think you have a shot at star baker?”

Crowley felt a little more confident now, “I think I’ve done enough to get through, especially with yesterday’s bakes too. Well, I hope so now I’ve said it, ha,” he huffed a laugh, “I don’t think I’m getting star baker though, there are some really good bakers in there who definitely had flavours the judges liked more.”

They were happy with the second answer but cycled back around to the first just to capture the audio a bit better, and he felt like a rather terrible actor having to regurgitate his answer again. By the time he made it back to the tent they were already ready to film the final segment. They wanted to film them all walking in and taking their seats too, and apparently that required them to line up in silence like school kids in assembly. All he could do was meet Aziraphale’s gaze and roll his eyes at the whole palaver, receiving an amused smile in return.

Once they were seated, the presenters and judges walked out, watching over them with an inscrutable gaze and careful not to linger too long on one person.

“Bakers, well done on your first week of the Bake Off, you all did yourselves proud.”

“Yes, and today I get the happy job of announcing star baker,” the other presenter said chirpily, “This week’s star baker is someone who does not add their flavours gingerly, who makes a divine angel cake slice, and who definitely doesn’t need to m-alter their chocolate cake recipe – yes, this week’s star baker is Aziraphale!”

“Oh, good Heavens, really?” he beamed and wiggled in his seat as the others applauded.

Crowley leaned over, still clapping, “Well done, Angel.”

“And this week I get the worst job,” the presenter began, and a hush settled over them, “One person has to leave the tent today, and the judges have decided that person is... Eve. I’m so sorry.”

Eve smiled sadly and shrugged, “Yeah, I knew it.”

* * *

More obligatory interviews, and soon they were dropped off at the hotel to collect their bags. It was late, the sun well on its way to setting, and everyone was quiet in a way only tiredness can bring. Crowley had made sure to drink a shot of espresso from the bar before he packed, conscious of the long drive he had home.

Aziraphale was waiting alongside the other bakers when he finally came down, and Crowley couldn’t help but grin at the little tartan suitcase that matched his bowtie.

“Well,” Crowley said to him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black jeans, “Star baker. I guess you didn’t do the wrong thing with the spun sugar.”

He startled out of a daydream, “Crowley! Hello dear,” he smiled, “You know, they never even mentioned it.”

“Na, wouldn’t want to risk losing their best baker.”

“Oh, I’m hardly the best, my dear,” he rebuffed, but looked delighted.

The doors of the minivan were slid open in front of them, the sound of the other bakers attempting to drag their suitcases through the gravel. Crowley was glad he’d insisted on driving there rather than taking the train; they had another half hour bus ride and then however long wait at the station before they were home, Aziraphale included.

“I could give you a lift,” Crowley suggested as nonchalantly as he could, “Since we’re both headed to London.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”

“Its no bother, really.”

Aziraphale looked thoughtful for a moment, “Well, I wouldn’t want to waste my train tickets, dear, they were quite expensive.”

“If you’re sure,” he tried not to sound too disappointed, “Uh, maybe I could save you a bit next time. If you like. I could give you a lift there and back?”

“I- well,” he looked down to his little tartan suitcase, worrying the button of his waistcoat, then gave Crowley a small smile, “It’s funny, but I keep trying to find a reason to say no.”

“You can just say no, I don’t mind. You don’t need a reason to.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant, dear boy. I do want to; in fact it sounds lovely. I just, I don’t know, worry about silly things sometimes. Would you believe it, I don’t have much experience in saying yes to things I really want.”

Crowley frowned at that, “Well, just know I wouldn’t ask you something if I didn’t want you to say yes. Or, well, unless it was something where no was appropriate or- well you get what I mean, Angel.”

“I do,” he said fondly, “Let me try again then; of course I would love to drive with you next week.”

Crowley grinned, wide, then fumbled in his jacket pocket for his phone, “Great! Uh, look, I’ll give you my number and you can tell me where to go.”

He stood with his phone in hand, number on screen, and waited for Aziraphale to bring out his own. Instead, his cheeks coloured, and he pulled out a small tartan address book from his pocket, a tiny thing Crowley hadn’t seen the likes of since the nineties.

“Do you have a pen, dear? I don’t have a mobile.”

“One sec, Angel,” he said, then hurried back into the hotel foyer. He quickly snatched up the pen from next to the guest book and sauntered back out, “Aha! Here you go.”

Aziraphale took it, “I do hope you’re going to return that, dear.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just a pen,” he waved the comment off, “You ready for my number?”

“It has the Hotel’s name on it! You can’t just keep it.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll put it back when you’re done, alright?” Crowley sighed.

“Good. Well, come on then, dear, your number?”

He gave Aziraphale a look before rattling the number off, and double checking he’d copied it down right. After a moment’s thought he added his home phone too, just in case; the phone signal always seemed to go spotty in his flat. The minibus horn honked, and the blonde looked up at the driver guiltily.

“Wonderful, darling, but I best be going,” he picked up his suitcase, “I’ll call you on Friday night to arrange things.”

“You could call me earlier if you want. Anytime you want.”

“That would be lovely,” he smiled, walking over to the bus, “Mind how you go!” Crowley watched him store the bag, and then pop his head around the door before it could close, “And return the pen!”

“Yeah, yeah, see you Angel,” he waved, the door soon closing shut behind his friend and the bus drawing away.

He ambled over to his Bentley, placing his case in the boot and climbing into the front seat. He sat for a moment, not starting the engine just yet. With a sigh he drew the pen out of his pocket and heaved himself out of the car. He placed the pen back where he found it.


	2. Week 2 - Biscuit Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little bit longer than I anticipated, and quite dialogue heavy, but I hope you enjoy chapter 2!
> 
> Mild mentions of homophobia and bullying, but only anecdotally. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for the comments and kudos :)

Aziraphale called him on Wednesday. Crowley hadn’t answered, what with the only calls he usually got from telemarketers and that weirdo from his old job who seemed to revolve numbers as quickly as Crowley blocked them, and the loop of his ansaphone message began to play out just as he was beating some biscuit dough into submission.

“ _This is Anthony J. Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style.”_

He alternated between thinking himself very clever and very cringey for the recording depending on the mood he was in, but never had the will to record another.

“Hello Crowley, sorry, I must have called at a bad time,” a very familiar and very welcome voice said, and Crowley didn’t even bother to clean his hands of dough before he rushed over, “It’s Aziraphale, from the Bake Off-“

The receiver almost slipped from his hands as he picked up, “Angel! Hello!”

“Oh, there you are, dear. I do hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”

“No, no, was just baking some biscuits, practicing and all,” he said, grinning widely. Christ, he was one step away from twirling the cord around his fingers like a teenage girl in a movie.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Aziraphale fussed, “I can call back?”

“No, it’s fine. They’re just cooling anyway. I’m all ears.”

“If you’re sure. Well, I just wanted to make arrangements for Friday, and see how you were, of course.”

Crowley dragged the phone closer to his desk, gently tugging the wire where it got stuck on the filigree of the table. He settled back into the rather ostentatious throne he’d bought on an ill-advised online shopping spree a few years ago, propping his feet on the table, “I’m great, as I said I’ve just been bullying some biscuits. They’ll crisp up if they know what’s good for them. You?”

“Oh really, my dear, you’re one of _those_ bakers! I did think I heard you hissing at your cake last week but didn’t want to say anything,” he laughed, “As for me, I’m afraid I quite fancied some of those lovely little millionaires cheesecakes this week and haven’t actually practiced any of my biscuits. You know, I even bought my shortbread for the base!”

“The scandal, Angel! You won’t be able to show your face in the tent again.”

“I haven’t told you the worst of it; they weren’t even Walkers, they were those 50p own brand ones from Tesco.”

“Right, I’m going to have to put you on hold, I need a word with the Bake Off producers. I can’t allow this.”

The sound of Aziraphale’s laughter on the end of the line was like an angelic choir.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a total loss though, the cheesecakes,” Aziraphale said, mirth in his tone, “I’m making a salted caramel filling for my sandwich biscuits, so I’ve had some practice at that, at least. And they did taste scrumptious.”

“Caramel in Week 2, risky, Angel, risky, but delicious. I’m going with a classic, again. Vamped up custard creams, just with a bit of rhubarb.”

“Oh, don’t, I’ll be craving rhubarb and custard next. Blast, no, it’s too late, I already am.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring you some on Friday. I have to foist off as many of my practice batches as possible anyway else I have about two hundred biscuits going mouldy in my cupboard,” he said, “Usually I give them to the downstairs neighbours and their kids take them to pass around at school, but with the summer holidays I’ve sort of overloaded them.”

“That’s ever so sweet, darling,” Aziraphale said fondly, “I’m rather ashamed to say I eat a fair few of my own bakes! Though even I have my limit; then I offer them to the customers at the bookshop. And nibble a few more myself.”

“Nothing wrong with appreciating food, Angel. I’ve tasted your cake remember, Mr Star Baker.”

“Flatterer,” Aziraphale hummed, “But for that I’ll bring you one of my cheesecakes as a treat.”

“Jackpot! I’m noting that on my calendar, so don’t forget! Ah, Friday – ‘Aziraphale Cheesecake Day’, perfect,” Crowley grinned, miming writing even though no-one was watching, “Speaking of, what’s the plan for Friday? I’m freelance so I can pick you up whenever, but the drive is about two hours so...”

“I don’t want you to have to drive in the dark, my dear, I can close up shop at midday. Perks of being the owner. Oh, and perhaps we can get lunch before we go? I know a lovely café nearby that makes a heavenly quiche.”

“It’s a date!” Crowley said, then immediately cringed, “I mean, sounds like a great plan. Um, so where is it you live?”

Aziraphale mercifully didn’t mention the slip up, “In Soho, my dear, above my bookshop. It’s A. Z Fell and Co, on the corner. Oh, do you want the postcode? I know so many people are using those Sat-Nav maps now.”

“No, no, should be able to find it easy enough. Hmm, might have passed by it before, actually. Reddish exterior, pillars out front?”

“That’s the place!” Aziraphale said excitedly, “What an ineffable coincidence that we might have been so close before, only to properly meet miles away for the show.”

“Ineffable? Really?”

“Quite so. You know, I’ve been reading this fascinating prophecy book – it is so intriguing to read the past predictions, I have quite the collection – where was I? Ah, yes, the prophecies themselves leave much to be desired, but there was a wonderful foreword talking about ineffability. It is from the 15th century so it was referring to a more religious ineffability of God’s plan, but the ideas were very relevant to modern thinking about causality and coincidence. I could lend you a copy?”

“Ah, er, I’ll take your word for it. I’m not much of a reader myself.”

“Well, I’ve given you the gist of it anyhow, oh-!” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly grew more distant as he seemed to be speaking to someone in the room, “ _I’ll be with you in a jiffy!_ ”, then resumed it’s normal volume, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, my dear, I have to go, I appear to have a customer.” He said ‘customer’ like it was a particularly vicious curse word.

“It’s fine, Angel. I’ll see you Friday, then, yeah?”

“Of course, dearest,” he said, distractedly, “Toodle pip!”

Crowley looked down at the receiver in distaste, “Toodle pip?” he asked, but the dial tone was already ringing.

* * *

Friday came quickly, most of the week filled with practice bakes that made the time fly, though Crowley did have a commission to finish in between. He had driven to Aziraphale’s place, the blonde waiting outside for him dressed as properly as ever.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale beamed at him, “Darling, it’s wonderful to see you.”

“You too, Angel,” he frowned at his empty hands, “Where’s your case?”

“Oh, we can pick that up later, dear, lunch first!” Aziraphale said decisively, and marching off down the street, clearly expecting Crowley to follow.

“Uh, I could drive us?” he pointed out, half-jogging to catch up.

“On a lovely day like this?” he asked, raising his face to the sun like a flower, “Besides, it’s only a charming little stroll away.”

The walk really was charming, Crowley had to admit, especially with the way Aziraphale would see some Soho landmark and launch into a tirade about it’s history. Well, the obscure history Aziraphale seemed to remember.

He was having a rather lovely time until he realised they’d arrived, and the place wasn’t the lovely little café he had been expecting. Crowley paused outside the eatery, bemused, “Angel, you said café. Café, not Michelin-star restaurant!”

“Well, it’s hardly the Ritz, darling.”

“That- that’s not the point!”

“We could eat somewhere else if you’re opposed?” Aziraphale pouted, “But I do so love their lunch menu.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, “No, it’s fine, I mean we’re here now. Just- don’t be surprised if I get kicked out for some dress code violation.” He looked at his tight black jeans and henley, in stark comparison to Aziraphale’s usual bowtie, waistcoat, and ancient coat.

“Don’t worry, the staff are ever so lovely and I’m sure they’ll understand,” He said, pushing past the door into the restaurant and greeting the server like an old friend, “Oh, hello Stacey! How’s the acting going?”

“Mr Aziraphale! It’s been a while,” she beamed, “And, oh, I told myself I wasn’t going to tell anyone but... I have an audition next week! It’s just for ensemble, nothing fancy, but it’s my chance.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news! You shall have to tell me when you get it, so I can see you perform,” Aziraphale trilled.

“You’ll be the first to know when I do,” Stacey said, but startled when the door opened again, the lunchtime crowd queueing up, “Oh dear, sorry, lunch time rush. Your usual table, sir?”

“Actually, I’m here with a friend,” he said, gesturing to Crowley, who had been hanging back awkwardly, “This is Crowley. Sorry if he’s dressed a little informally, I did quite spring this meal upon him.”

Stacey looked him up and down, less assessing his outfit and more appreciating it. She smirked at Aziraphale, “No, not informal at all. In fact I’d say he has very good taste. Let me show you to your table, gentlemen.”

They were seated near the window, a lovely wooden panelled booth with Nordic style tablecloth between them. Stacey handed them their menus, leather bound books but with only a few sheaves of paper in them, and left them both to decide.

They scanned the menus in comfortable silence, Aziraphale hemming and hawing over each possible dish until Stacey had finished seating the other patrons and came back to take their order.

“Hello again gentlemen, are you ready to order?” she asked with cheer. Crowley would normally suspect this just to be typical customer service attitude, but she seemed actually genuine when dealing with Aziraphale.

“Could I please have the gravlax and dill sauce and, hmm, a glass of Hallands Fläder to pair?” Aziraphale said, eyes scanning the wine list before closing it with a snap.

“And you sir?” she asked Crowley while still scribbling on her notepad.

“Uh, I’ll have the,” he squinted at the menu, was it all in Swedish?, “The toast skagen? Just with water please.”

“Water? But the Skåne is very good, dear.”

“I’m driving remember?”

Aziraphale straightened, and looked at him apologetically, “Oh! Of course, how silly of me! I’m so sorry, Stacey, but could I have the elderflower pressé instead?”

“You don’t have to abstain on my part, Angel.”

“No, it’s alright, dear, I don’t want to get a dickie stomach on the drive.”

Food ordered, Stacey gathered up the menus from the pair, but not before giving Crowley another look, “I hope you have a _lovely_ date,” she said with a wink and a side-eye to Aziraphale.

Crowley blushed, but once again Aziraphale didn’t mention it.

* * *

They stopped in briefly at the bookshop, Aziraphale hurrying off to retrieve his suitcase from the backroom while Crowley waited in the foyer. The place was huge and filled in every corner with the oldest looking books he’d ever seen; when Aziraphale had told him he had a shop he sort of suspected a few first editions and the rest second-hand tat, but there wasn’t a harlequin romance in sight. It was cluttered too, with knick-knacks and trinkets, half started antique collections and numerous antique book ends. Crowley held back a laugh when he saw the ancient computer near Aziraphale’s desk; just what he should have expected.

Aziraphale returned with not only his case but a promised cheesecake and fork, grinning widely at his friend, “Here you are, darling, I told you I’d save one.”

“Thanks, Angel,” he tucked into the dessert and groaned around his fork, “Christ, this is good. M’going to have to watch out for you in the competition, aren’t I?”

Aziraphale flushed at the praise, “Oh, I don’t know about that dear.”

“Well, we best get going or we’ll never find out.”

Crowley had been true to his word and brought a box of his rhubarb and custard biscuits for Aziraphale to try in the car. It was a testament to how much Crowley liked him that he risked crumbs on the Bentley’s interior. It was a shame then that Aziraphale had not had a chance to even open the container, so tight was his white-knuckle grip on it. To be fair, Crowley should have warned him he was a bit of a speed demon before he gave him a lift. The little squeaks and bracing hands around corners were very entertaining, even if he did feel guilty and let up once Aziraphale started to look a little green.

Crowley rather suspected Aziraphale would be glaring at him furiously if not for the sheer relief he had of getting out of the car. He stumbled a bit on the gravel, legs like jelly, and in the end just leaned up against the Bentley and closed his eyes.

“You alright there, Angel?” he smirked as he took their luggage from the boot.

“You foul fiend,” Aziraphale warbled, “You _demon._ ”

“C’mon, it wasn’t all that bad.”

“Not that- you were doing ninety miles an hour!”

“Only to overtake that Audi. He started it.”

“Well you didn’t have to finish it,” he pouted, straightening his bowtie.

“I got you here in one piece in the end, didn’t I?” Crowley moved Aziraphale’s case to his other hand, then checked his watch with over-the-top flair, “And before five too, jackpot.”

Aziraphale scrubbed a hand down his face, “My ears are still ringing. I need a drink.”

“Excellent idea! Come on Angel, sooner we get checked in the sooner we can raid the bar.”

“One second, dear,” Aziraphale said, ducking back into the car to retrieve the biscuit tin, “These will go wonderfully with a glass of sherry.”

“Hmm, might go for some whiskey myself,” Crowley said to him as they walked to the foyer.

It was only when Crowley was struggling up the front steps with a case in each hand that Aziraphale realised he was chivalrously carrying his luggage for him.

“Oh, darling, come here, let me take my own bag, how rude of me!” he fussed, attempting to hold the biscuit tin under his arm to free up his hand.

“No worries, Angel, I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he puffed, crying out triumphantly as he set the case onto it’s wheels on the top step, “See? All done. Though I have to ask, what the hell do you have in here? A brick? A pile of bricks? A house?”

“Just one or two novels to pass the time.”

“What? War and Peace?”

“Oh, lord no, I can’t stand Tolstoy,” he retorted, rushing forward to hold the door open for Crowley and the luggage, “But I may have been inspired to reread Les Misérables.”

“Les Mis- that’s like a thousand pages! When do you even plan on reading it? Do you even sleep?”

“If you must know I thought I could read while I was waiting on the bakes.”

“Of course, I should have known. I’m surprised you didn’t do it last week.”

“Good afternoon gentlemen,” the receptionist at the front desk recited pertly as they approached, “do you have a reservation?”

“Yeah, uh, we’re with Love Productions? Crowley and Aziraphale?” Crowley said, leaning casually with an arm slung over the counter, tapping his nails against the marble surface.

“Let me just- ah there we are, Anthony J Crowley, yes? You’re in room 201,” the receptionist typed furiously on their keyboard, frowned at the screen, and looked up to assess them, “I’m afraid we didn’t know you had a guest; we’ve only set up for one person-”

“Oh, no, he’s not- we’re not sharing, he’s another baker. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Uh, actually, it’s Aziraphale Princeton,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, casting Crowley a sideways glance, “I’ll explain later.”

“Princeton... Princeton- here we are, room 202, oh! It seems you two are right next door to each other!” the receptionist said, typing all the while.

“How marvellous!” Aziraphale beamed.

“Yeah, I won’t have to stumble along the corridor drunk on my own this time.”

“Really, Crowley, I rather think stumbling is an occupational hazard with the way you walk. I’m sure those trousers don’t help.”

“Hey! What’s wrong with my trousers?”

The receptionist shared a significant look with Aziraphale as they handed him the set of keys, “Nothing, dear, nothing.”

* * *

He had learned something of a lesson from last week’s hangover and took a more quantitative approach to his alcohol consumption with three tumblers of whiskey, instead of his usual qualitative drink-until-your-world-spins. Still, the brightness of the lights in the tent was making his head ache regardless. The bench layout was completely different from the week before, this time he was second from the front and Aziraphale was three rows back on the opposite side, which was only adding to his lack of enthusiasm this morning.

As far as he was concerned, all the judgement he’d ever want on his rhubarb and custard biscuits had taken place last night when Aziraphale had liked them so much he’d eaten five in the space of twenty minutes while making quite frankly obscene noises that had even the bartender blushing. The prospect of making them again and listening to the critique of people he didn’t care about did not appeal to him.

Perhaps the cameras could tell he was only going through the motions today because they only asked him one question the whole time. From the glances he took at Aziraphale’s station he could tell it was a different story for his angel. They’d evidently caught him reading during a bit of downtime and orchestrated it so the judges would have a bit of a rapport with him about it. Well, it would be rapport if they could offer anything but bemused distain in the face of Aziraphale’s endearing rambling about Victor Hugo.

It meant twice the satisfaction, though, when the judges reluctantly couldn’t fault Aziraphale’s chocolate salted caramel sandwich biscuits.

* * *

Crowley would have to say that he liked the technical the least, if only because communication with the other bakers was so scrutinised and he didn’t have the chance to talk to Aziraphale. He could just hear him talking if William on the counter next to him stopped rattling everything around, which he only did when gawping over the instructions with mounting frustration. 

“I haven’t made Florentines in a very long time,” he heard Aziraphale reveal to the camera in one such lull, “I simply adore them, but I never could make them better than the bakery down the road, so haven’t bothered in a while!”

Crowley made a mental note to take Aziraphale there sometime in the future. That is, if either of them ever wanted to see a Florentine again.

With no Aziraphale to distract him – though admittedly it was more Crowley distracting himself by staring at the blonde – he rattled through the recipe with ease, keeping one eye on the carefully measured butter, sugar, and syrup heating on the stove top while he chopped the fruit. The recipe wasn’t quite one he was used to, but it was fairly intuitive; he personally preferred adding double cream to create a rich delicious caramel, even if it did compromise a bit on crunch. Then again, he thought as he whipped the pan from the heat and tossed in the flour and fruit, this version would be a little too cookie-like with such a large amount of flour. Regardless, it looked delicious, and smelled it too, nutty and syrupy and decadent.

Setting the mix aside, he rifled through the drawers of his bench, calling out in triumph as he found the biscuit cutter he was looking for, about two and a half inches wide. A quick peek around the room saw no-one else using his method, and he had a smug sense of pride as he lightly drew six even sized circles on each tray. The recipe had called for him to just spoon the mix on the tray and hope for it to spread, but he’d long since learned that they’ll come out better if flattened out.

The cameraman seem to pick up on his unusual method and was making sure to get as many angles of it as possible, “Can you explain what you’re doing?” he asked, “And wait- wait! Scoop that out again and flatten it while you’re talking.”

“Uh, I want to make sure they’re all the same size and spread properly,” he explained, doing as asked, “I know the recipe says otherwise, but I’ve found this works better.”

The cameraman looked a little dubious, but changes to the recipes always made good TV, especially if they resulted in failure. Too bad for the viewing figures then that Crowley knew this would work.

* * *

First place. He’d had to straighten up the edges of each biscuit with the cutter again after they’d come out of the oven, an idea he’d seen William half-successfully steal from him to bag second place, and the judges couldn’t fault them. Even the lines in the chocolate were identical.

Unfortunately, presentation wasn’t Aziraphale’s strong point; sure they tasted good, but they varied in size, and the ratio of almonds to fruit was so erratic that one of the Florentines was eighty percent cherry pieces. He only avoided last place because Marie had over salted her mix.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale cooed after their interviews, “I’m so proud of you, my dear!”

“Thanks Angel, s’nothing really,” he said modestly.

“But darling they were simply delicious! I shan’t mention it to Pierre, but I think you make them better than even him. And certainly better than me.”

“Well, I can make them again for you if you like,” Crowley offered, “And don’t worry about all that Angel, you did great on the signature. Even if you were reading through most of it.”

“You can’t expect me to stop reading in the middle of the barricade chapters.”

“I can’t expect you to stop reading in the middle of anything to be honest.”

Aziraphale chortled, “Oh, you know me too well.”

“I don’t know, I think I still have a bit to learn.”

* * *

They mutually agreed to lay off on the alcohol a second day in a row, and instead stuck to a glass of wine each with the rather excellent tortellini at the hotel. They’d spent most of the meal supressing their laughter, stories swapped of bad hair styles and terrible fashion faux pas of their youth. Aziraphale didn’t have a mobile, of course, but he could paint such vivid picture with his words that he almost found more descriptive than the embarrassing photos Crowley did have to hand.

After their meal and without drinking, they felt a little awkward simply sitting around the bar and decided to head back to Aziraphale’s room.

“Dearest, would you like a cocoa?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley flung himself down on the impossibly comfortable sofa, “It’s not quite as good as I make at home, but it’ll suffice.”

“Na, but if you’re offering I’ll have an espresso.”

“An espresso? My dear, you’ll be up all night!”

“Ah, fair point,” he conceded, “Go on then, I’ll have a cocoa.”

“Delightful!” Aziraphale said, slipping on his glasses to see the buttons he was pressing on the machine, “Ah! Here we are. If only we had some marshmallows.”

“Should have said, Angel, I’d have nabbed some from the tent.”

“But that would be stealing,” he frowned, passing Crowley his drink and sitting primly beside him on the sofa.

“Eh, would it? They’re there for us to use.”

“In the pursuit of entertainment, yes, not for a bedtime snack.”

“You make it sound like the Bake Off is a noble endeavour to human enlightenment.”

Aziraphale huffed, “Well, it makes people happy.”

“And they’d be happy even if we did pinch a few marshmallows,” he took a drink, “In fact, they’d love the drama. I can see the headlines now – ‘Bake Off heist; stolen marshmallows used in illicit cocoa drinking session’.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Aziraphale failed to hide a grin.

After a few minutes of enjoying his drink and Crowley’s company, Aziraphale cleared his throat and asked, “Crowley dear? May I be terribly bold and ask you something?”

“Technically that was already a question,” Crowley pointed out.

“You know what I mean. Just- I’m afraid it may be a little personal. You don’t have to answer, if you’d rather not.”

Crowley’s mind raced through what he could possibly want to ask. About his eyes? His sexuality? Whether he would consider telling the Bake Off to sod off so they could run away together and start a bakery and maybe also get married on the side? He shook his head, both in reply and to clear his head of the notion, “It’s alright, Angel, ask away.”

“When I telephoned you the other day, I was put through to your voice message first. And yesterday, at the reception, too. Well, I was wondering if that’s your full name. Anthony Crowley, I mean.”

“J,” he said instinctively, “It’s, uh, Anthony J Crowley, actually.”

“Oh! I see,” he paused for a moments, tugging on his waistcoat, “And- and, if I may, I was curious as to why you only use your surname?”

Crowley sat back in his seat and sighed, “Dunno, really. S’what I’ve always been called. I mean, at school it was just what you did, teachers, friends, they all just called everyone their surnames. As for my parents- well, the less said about them the better. But it stuck, I guess, though my first few jobs. Then when I went freelance it was just more convenient to have pseudonym for certain projects.”

“Is that what you’d like me to call you?” Aziraphale asked magnanimously, “If you would rather go by Anthony I’d be happy to oblige. I’ll get used to it.”

It didn’t sound so bad when Aziraphale said it. His name had gone through so many evolutions since he’d last seen his parents that hearing someone want to call him by his original name was rather jarring. But as much as he wanted Aziraphale to know him as he was now, as Crowley, not as Anthony, or Crawley, he also wanted Aziraphale to _know_ him. From what his friend had said about not feeling he could say yes to things he really wanted Crowley suspected they both had some baggage in their past.

He sat forward in his chair, bracing himself for this admission, and the light-hearted atmosphere in the room dropped into something heavier.

“It wasn’t always Crowley, y’know. My birth name was Anthony Crawley, and I hated it. My family, well, they weren’t well liked, and I wasn’t the exception. Used to be pushed over a lot, ‘ _go on, crawl, Crawley’_ ” he imitated, “And of course with my eyes,” he motioned to them haltingly, as if Aziraphale might not have noticed them before, “Soon it was Snake-eyed Crawley. So I changed it. As soon as I turned sixteen I left home, left them all behind and changed it legally. The ‘J’ I added for style. Mystery,” he laughed, “Doesn’t even mean anything, stupid teenager that I was.”

“And Anthony?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“It was easier to keep. I mean, you can see how creative I was with the middle name, thinking up a whole new first name? Nah,” he fiddled with his mug, “It’s odd. It’s what _they_ used to call me, but now they’re... wherever the Hell they are, it’s all my own, y’know? Still, didn’t use it again until I was in my twenties, and boy, was I a mess. Tried to reclaim it, have strangers say it to rid any memory of my parents saying it. Instead I just have a load more people to try and forget.”

“I’m sorry dear. I didn’t want to bring up bad memories.”

“It’s alright. Actually, it was nice, hearing you say it. But- but maybe not too often, yeah?”

“Of course, my dear Crowley,” Aziraphale smiled, and reached across the sofa to squeeze his hand affectionately before quickly letting go, “If makes you feel a little better, I know how you feel,” he admitted, “Aziraphale is my real name, and it’s a part of me now that I am proud of, but for a long time I hated it. I’m sure you can guess, but my family are rather religious. When I- ahem,” he began to absently twist the ring on his finger, then cleared his throat and looked at Crowley carefully, “I- I’m not sure if this is a shock to you dear, but now would be a good time to tell you that I am a gay man.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose and he fought to laugh at the terribly inappropriate time, “Angel, I don’t mean to offend you when I say this, but you being gay is the opposite of a shock.”

“Am I really that obvious?” he laughed, a little flustered.

“Maybe just to me, Angel. Might just be because I am too – well, bi actually.”

And was it just Crowley or did Aziraphale look almost overjoyed at that news? He brushed the thought away; of course he was pleased at finding out the person he was confiding in most likely wasn’t going to be cruel to him about his sexuality.

“Oh! Splendid! I did rather suspect you were part of the queer community, but I didn’t want to presume.”

“Presume away, Angel, I’ve been out since I was sixteen,” he replied, “You were saying?”

“Oh yes! Well,” his expression darkened into something sad, “as I said my family are very religious; when they adopted me and my siblings as babies they changed our names to those of angels. Gabriel, Uriel, Michael, Sandalphon, and of course, Aziraphale. Bit of a lesser known angel, but one nonetheless. They caught me with a boy around the back of the library a few months before I went to university. My first kiss, actually. I’d never, _never_ heard my parents shout like that before. I should have known then not to try and talk sense into them but-“ he shuddered, “It did not go well. By the time I got to university I truly believed it when they said God wouldn’t love me, so much so that I couldn’t bear to even keep my name, an angel’s name of all things. So a little like you, I left them behind, left my name behind and became A.Z Fell, albeit it not officially. Oh, it was awful, people called me Azi. _Azi._ And I encouraged them to! I worked for a while, saved up enough for the bookshop, and kept the name.”

“Until?” Crowley asked gently.

Aziraphale brightened, “A visitor came to the bookshop, a lovely man from the local church who was spreading the message of God. I am rather ashamed to say I had picked up a few toxic views on religion at the time, and I remember – oh, it’s so embarrassing – I remember telling him that I didn’t subscribe to a religion that only spread division and discrimination, and that this was a queer friendly space. He looked so pitying, not angry, but more like he’d just been told something very sad. He told me that he went to church every Sunday and went home to his boyfriend every evening. That the bible wasn’t about dividing but bringing people together, and that the real teachings of God was to love above all else. Something clicked, Crowley, and, oh, I positively broke down in his arms. It was the first time in ten years I’d introduced myself by my real name, and the first time since I came out as gay that I didn’t feel ashamed that I had been gifted it.”

“Wow, Aziraphale, that’s- I’m sorry you had to go through that. I’m glad you’re happy now. Assuming, you are?” Crowley said, affected.

Aziraphale gave him a soft smile, “I am. In fact I have to say, that first time you called me Angel, it meant so much to me. Even after all these years I have waves of doubt about what God might say, but that you could see me as an Angel,” he looked up, tears in his eyes, “Thank you.”

“Thank you for trusting me,” Crowley said.

They sat for a while longer, mulling over everything they’d learned about each other.

“Well, thank you for a lovely evening, dear boy,” Aziraphale beamed, “But perhaps it’s time we got some sleep.”

Crowley yawned into his hand, “Yeah, I think you might be right, Angel.”

* * *

Crowley wasn’t particularly worried about today's showstopper; biscuits were one of the easier things to execute correctly and didn’t call for any particularly challenging flavours. He was just ready to get this over with and begin to prepare for bread week.

Shem was at the bench in front of him, one of the three younger bakers in the tent; they had shared a word or two, and very British awkward smiles, and Crowley liked him well enough. He’d heard snippets of the impressive sculpture that he planned on building and was quite excited to see how it turned out. He occasionally caught sight of Aziraphale when he turned to survey the room, but mostly kept himself to himself as he rolled out his gingerbread and cut it precisely to his moulds.

It hardly felt like any time at all before his biscuits were all baked, and the presenter was calling out, “Bakers you have ten minutes remaining!”

Crowley was just assembling his own sculpture, pressing _just so_ on the gingerbread roof of the Bentley to adhere it to the sides with liquorice flavoured candied sugar, when there was a yelp and a huge crash in front of him. He looked up startled, lucky that the sugar had already set, to see Shem practically in tears, a tray of biscuit animals at his feet and the half-smashed hull of his ark teetering perilously on the edge of the counter.

“Shit,” Crowley muttered, hurrying over to help.

“Oh God,” Shem cried, just standing above the mess in horror.

“It’s alright, kid, just a few cracked biscuits,” Crowley said, quickly moving the biscuits back onto the tray, and then pushing the ark so that it was out of the way. What was once a giraffe had his neck snapped, an elephant down its trunk and two legs, and some other undeterminable animal was mostly triangles, “See, they just need a bit of TLC and will be as good as new.”

Shem put his head in his hands, just breathing deeply, “Right, right.”

“You alright?” he soothed and was all too aware of the camera shoved in both their faces. The presenters were hovering, too, asking platitudes, but evidently thought Crowley had it covered.

“Piss off, would you?” he hissed to the cameras, steering Shem to a stool and foisted him off to the presenters.

Crowley took stock of the damage to the ark, now, wincing at the huge crater of smashed biscuit. A simple graft was not going to fix this; the boat wouldn’t stand at all now since the keel was snapped in two and premade supports shattered. It was lying on its side now, opened hull like a gaping wound.

He tilted his head to one side, and the next, “I suppose it could be the ark after the flood? I mean, all the animals are back on land, they don’t need the ark anymore, it’s left to, uh, ruins, a bit.”

Shem sniffed, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Just concentrate on the icing, yeah? You still got biscuit for them to taste and the Ark is basically standing.”

“I can do that. I can do that.”

“Yes, exactly! Now, you alright on your own? I can start some candied sugar for you if you like?”

“No, no, really it’s fine, you should go finish your own.”

Crowley studied him for a moment, then nodded and returned to his bench.

He kept surreptitiously looking up at Shem’s bench while he worked, gluing his liquorice macarons to the wheel arches as Shem was trying to stick the horn back onto a unicorn. While he was whisking his dark chocolate coating, Shem was whipping up a bowl of royal icing. And while he delicately placed his sugar pane windows into place, Shem lay the animal biscuits down next to the wreckage of his ark.

“Bakers, your time is up! Stop baking everyone – that includes you, Gwen!”

Crowley stepped back, wiping his forehead with his sleeve as he assessed his bake. It looked amazing, if he did say so himself, and he only hoped the liquorice wasn’t too overpowering in the gingerbread. They had a short break to clean away the worst of the mess at their benches, but soon were instructed to seat themselves on their stools. He caught Shem’s eye as he was gazing around and shot him an encouraging smile.

Crowley sat with mild disinterest for the first few bakers, all of them doing mildly well, before he perked up at Aziraphale’s name being called. The blonde smiled at him as he passed, and Crowley was thrilled to see his sculpture looked exactly like the bookshop, piles of shortbread books of varying colours stacked to the nines, brandy snap pillars, and a little gingerbread Aziraphale sitting at a gingerbread desk.

“Wow,” said one of the judges, “This looks fabulous.”

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale beamed.

“So this is your bookshop?” the other asked.

“It is! Though with far fewer books than I actually stock,” he joked.

“It really does look fantastic. Let’s have a taste; remind us what you’ve baked?”

“Well, the structure and the person are gingerbread, and the décor is strawberry royal icing, with brandy snap supports.”

He waited for the judges to try them, each piece getting a praise for the bake and flavour, before continuing, “And the books are a mix of either lemon, strawberry, or blackberry shortbread, so yellow, red, and purple respectively.”

“I’m getting the lemon,” the judge said around a mouthful, “But for those two I can’t taste strawberry or blackberry at all. Aside from that though, great bake. Excellent texture.”

“I agree, very well done Aziraphale!”

“Thank you very much.”

Crowley gave him a happy nod as he walked back to his bench, mouthing congratulations to him. There were another two contestants before he was called up, and he carefully sauntered down the aisle with his sculpture.

“My biscuit sculpture is of my Bentley. The body is gingerbread coated with a dark chocolate, with liquorice sugar glue, sugar glass windows, and liquorice macarons for wheels.”

“Crowley, this is stunning,” the judge said, “Really, the skill you have used to assemble that with such precision, is amazing.”

“Yeah, now I can’t wait to taste it.”

It was a bit heart-breaking watching his hard work be dismantled, but half the work was also in the taste. And by the looks of things it tasted good.

“Mmm, that is good,” the judge announced, “That liquorice works so well with the ginger, and it’s balanced perfectly with the chocolate.”

“And those macarons are beautiful, with just enough liquorice. Very well done.”

He grinned at them proudly, bolstered even further when he turned to leave and Aziraphale was giving him an enthusiastic double thumbs up.

In true dramatic fashion, they’d chosen to leave Shem’s until last.

There was an uncomfortable silence as the boat wobbled on the table.

“Erm, I’ve baked a, um, chocolate biscuit ark,” Shem stuttered, “As you can see I had an accident, um, I dropped the try of animals onto the ark and, well... yeah.”

“It is a real shame, because I can see what you were trying to do, but we can’t really escape the fact that it is unfinished.”

“I have to agree. Only one of your animals is iced, and the ark itself is not really recognisable.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Shem nodded, “To be honest I’m embarrassed to serve it to you.”

“No, don’t be embarrassed, accidents happen,” the judge soothed, “I know I’ve dropped a bake or two in my day.”

The other judge grinned, “I only ever bake bread and if you drop that you’re fine.”

“Honestly,” they rolled their eyes, “Shall we taste?”

They salvaged a bit of arc, and the one iced animal between them.

“Your chocolate biscuit is very dry. You really do need some kind of icing with it.”

“I did have some chocolate icing planned but I ran out of time.”

“It’s a shame you didn’t get it on, because the icing on the shortbread animals is very good, I like the pistachio.”

Despite the small amount of praise, Shem took his bake back to the tent looking rather troubled.

* * *

“I have the honour, no, the pleasure of announcing this week’s star baker,” the presenter began as they sat tensely on their stools, “This week’s winner made spectacular sandwich biscuits, flourished at Florentines, and baked his Bentley – it’s Crowley!”

Aziraphale clapped obnoxiously loudly along with the others, and beamed at him proudly.

“And now, the bad news,” the presenter said, looking over the bakers, “Someone has to leave. And that baker is... Shem. I’m so sorry, you were great, it just wasn’t your day.”

While the others crowded around to Shem to say goodbye, Crowley was stood back confused and rather outraged. Aziraphale nudged his arm, noting something was wrong.

“How is that fair?” Crowley asked, a little too loudly, “Shem? You can’t kick out a kid for dropping his bake!”

“Crowley dear,” Aziraphale said, “I’m afraid that’s the way it goes, sometimes.”

Crowley turned to him in disbelief, “You can’t think this is ok? They said it themselves, the flavour was fine!”

“Of course I don’t, Crowley. But, it’s not our decision.”

“So you’re just not going to say anything?” he demanded.

“Someone had to leave. Would if have been fair if it was Victoria? She had an off day with flavours, but does that mean she deserves to leave? What about me? My technical was abysmal, should I go?”

“Of course not!” Crowley said, then clenched his jaw at being proved wrong, “I’m still going to the producers about this.”

Aziraphale smiled, “I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, dear.”

“But you’re not going to?”

The blonde paused, a pained smile on his face, “I’ll support you, if you need it. But I-“ he looked down, “I don’t have a good history with confrontation. I’m sorry.”

Well if that didn’t make him feel like the biggest arsehole in the world, “No, no, don’t be sorry, Angel, I get it, really I do. God, I feel like a right git.”

“It’s alright dear,” he smiled, patting him on the arm, “No more fretting, my dear, now I think we should sample some of these biscuits, yes?”

* * *

The producers had set up shop in the manor house, and while they weren’t always all there, they had at least one of them on filming days just in case. Today there was only one, seated at a table in the corner of the room and staring intently at her laptop. She didn’t look up when Crowley came in, only absently snapped out “What?” while she typed.

“I don’t agree with today’s decision.”

She stopped typing and looked up, “You don’t?”

“No, it wasn’t fair. I don’t want to win based on—on an accident. I don’t think anyone does.”

“So what do you want?”

“I want Shem to stay. He presented a bake, it had reasonable flavour. Dropping the biscuits should not have come into play in the judging.”

“Ok, we allow Shem to stay, then what? What if it was you in second last place?”

“Then fine, I’ll go,” he said defiantly.

The producer sighed, then changed tack, “And what if it was your friend Aziraphale?”

Crowley paused, clenching his jaw, “That’s beside the point, he isn’t in that position.”

“How do you know? Did you taste everyone else’s bakes?”

“I didn’t have to; I just know,” he growled, then immediately felt a little foolish at the revealing admission.

“Look, Crowley, I appreciate your concerns, but there is really nothing we can do. Shem did not serve what he was asked to, what he did serve was unfinished, and the judges said his flavour was only ok. The judges have made the decision under the same rules as the previous series.”

“It was still a sculpture! It was standing! And it wasn’t finished because he accidentally dropped it, and that affected the flavour. And- and it didn’t help that as soon as it happened cameras were swarming him while he was crying. You can’t just kick him out!”

“I acknowledge that’s your opinion, but you are not the producer of this show, I am. You’re welcome to drop out, if you’re outraged that much, but we won’t be bringing Shem back. That’s final.”

Crowley practically growled at him, shoving his chair back and stalking out the room and across the green to the minibus.

“Um, Crowley?” a voice piped up behind him, interrupting his brooding. He turned to see Shem sheepishly approaching him and tried to dial back his fury.

“Hey Shem, I’m sorry about today.”

“It’s alright. Really, it is. I- Aziraphale told me you were going to talk to the producers about me leaving?”

“I was. I have,” he confessed, “They said they won’t change their mind. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, well, actually I was going to tell you not to go to the trouble,” Shem said, “I’m grateful, I really am, but- well to tell you the truth I’m rather glad to go. I mean, I like baking, but all this pressure and with my last year of college- and the cameras. I think I bit off more than I could chew really.”

“You’re sure?”

“I think so,” he nodded, “It’s a weight off my mind really, I’m not sure how much longer I could have held on for and if I’d dropped out- well I’m sure they’d understand but I don’t want to disappoint my parents, especially after all the support they’ve given me.”

“Putting your mental health first is nothing to be disappointed in,” Crowley insisted, “But I am sad to see you go. Tell you what, how about we get a celebratory drink before you leave? Wait, you are old enough for that, yeah?”

Shem laughed, “Believe it or not, I am eighteen.”

“Ah, I remember eighteen. Great year. Then again, it was the eighties, so it was always great.”

“The eighties? I thought you were like thirty; how old even are you?”

“That’s on a need to know basis only” Crowley smirked.

* * *

They waved a slightly tipsy Shem and the others off as the minibus departed, Aziraphale at his side, and then made for the Bentley. It seemed Aziraphale had momentarily forgotten his traumatic experience in the car for he almost looked pleased approaching it. He only clouded over a bit when Crowley opened the door for him and ushered him in with a flourish.

Crowley’s grin was all teeth as Aziraphale shot him a warning look, “You better drive sensibly today.”

“Just what are you insinuating, Angel?” he replied, raising his voice a little to be heard and he slid around to the driver’s side.

“I am not insinuating anything, dear, I am explicitly telling you that you are a terrible driver.”

“You don’t even drive!” Crowley punctuated by starting the Bentley and revving the engine. As soon as the car had rolled off the gravel driveway he ramped up the speed to just below the limit. The radio resumed played The Best of Queen, and Crowley drummed his hands on the steering wheel to the tune of Under Pressure.

“I don’t have to be a composer to appreciate music,” Aziraphale yelled over the song, already clutching his seat, “Speaking of which, please can you turn your radio down to a level that won’t shatter my eardrums this time?”

“Alright, fine,” Crowley conceded, turning it down to more of a background noise, “But the Queen stays.”

“Thank you, dear. Now – oh is that really the time? – I don’t suppose we could find somewhere to stop off to eat on the way do you?”

He chuckled, “Was already planning on it, Angel. What do you say to Italian?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Florentine commentary is based on an article I read about the best method, and from making them myself this week! 
> 
> And this was a loose attempt at the 'you can't kill kids conversation' - not sure of the exact rules for dropping bakes in the real Bake Off, but in this universe they're a little harsher ahah
> 
> Next chapter might be a week or two, because this one was so long and I have to catch up on some other projects 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Week 3 - Bread Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to preface this by saying, uh, anniversary video??? This fic is now practically canon. Ish.  
> Oddly, for a fic based on the Bake Off, the ratio of baking to non-baking gradually decreases chapter to chapter. 5000 words in and it was still only the span of one day, uh oh. But there are only so many times you can describe the process of baking, filming, and judging without plagiarising yourself.  
> Also, I initially planned for this to be like a feel-good perhaps 10k word fic max. Um. That... hasn’t happened? 
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for the comments and kudos so far, I really appreciate it :)

Crowley had never been one to understand the rule about waiting three days before calling your date back. Not that he’d been on a date with Aziraphale, of course, but as he settled back on his uncomfortable sofa and scrolled through his minimal contacts, the rule came to mind. He’d only seen Aziraphale last night, and it was still less than twelve hours ago that he had been left with the parting image of him waving out a dusty window after their drive home.

Aziraphale picked up on what must have been close to the last ring, “I’m afraid we’re quite definitely closed.”

Crowley peered over at the clock on his desk, “Closed? It’s eleven in the morning, Angel.”

“Oh, Crowley! Hello, dear boy,” he chirped, sounding immeasurably more pleased that he had before, “And if you must know I’ve decided to close shop on Mondays, now. Catch up on some reading, and my repairs that I couldn’t get done on the weekend.”

“Ah, I see. Any excuse to sell even fewer books.” Crowley smirked.

“Well, there may be a bit of that too, darling,” he admitted, “Anyhow, to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

“Right,” he said soberly, “Well, Aziraphale, I was thinking- I was a dick to you on Sunday,” Crowley declared, “Let me make it up to you?”

“Really Crowley, your driving was rather erratic, but it’d hardly call you a d- well, _that_.”

“No, not my driving, Angel. I mean about Shem, judging you for not wanting a confrontation.”

“Oh, you mean that silly tiff? I’d hardly even call it that, you don’t have anything to make up for,” Aziraphale fussed, “And besides, you already apologised.”

“I was still an insensitive bastard.”

“Oh, Crowley, you’re nothing of the sort.”

“Well, indulge me, at least. Let me take you out somewhere proper for dinner.”

“Alright, dear, if you insist. I’m hardly one to turn down a nice meal.”

“Brilliant. Uh, so, where would you like to go? There’s a sushi place near me, you like sushi, yes?”

“I do, darling, but- well actually, I saw this fascinating article in a copy of Good Food magazine the other day – oh, let me see if I can find it,” Crowley could hear him walking about and rustling papers, but quickly giving up, “Ah, blast, I was sure it was over here! But, ah, yes, did you know that they had restaurants in Ancient Rome? Well, apparently a recipe survived from around Nero’s time, from a restaurateur called Petronius who allegedly did remarkable things to oysters, and ever since I read about it I’ve been craving oysters something silly.”

“You know, I’ve never actually had an oyster.”

“Oh, well, in that case you simply must try some! We should go to – oh, you’ll like this! – Bentley’s Oyster Bar; it’s not far from either of us, dearest.”

“Heh, sounds like a bit like that ineffable coincidence thing you were talking about.”

Aziraphale laughed delightedly, “Oh, I do think so too, darling,” and behind the mirth he sounded rather touched that Crowley had remembered, “So, what time should I expect you tonight?”

“T-tonight? Oh, right yeah, I thought you’d- yeah tonight is good.”

“Or we could go another night, if you have plans?”

“No! I mean- ha, no, I just thought you might have. Plans, that is. But I’d love to see you tonight. Um, how about six? At the bookshop?”

“Six sounds wonderful, darling,” Aziraphale assured, “I look forward to seeing you.”

“Great. Great! Well, see you later then-“ he paused, “Actually, is there a dress code I should know about this time?”

“Oh, no don’t worry, you were plenty smart last time, dear. No tie needed.”

Crowley took that to mean there _was_ an implied dress code, and he should probably at least wear his blazer this time, no matter what Aziraphale had thought of his previous outfit’s suitability, “I don’t think I’ve worn a tie since I was twenty five, to be honest.”

“I’m sure you’d look very dashing if you choose to buck the trend.”

Crowley was strongly weighing up the benefits of Aziraphale enjoying him dressed in a tie versus the cons of the discomfort of wearing it, “Hmm, we’ll see,” he said, “I’ll leave you to it, yeah? See you tonight, Angel.”

“Tarra, darling.”

* * *

Crowley had decided against the tie in the end, thinking that on the off chance he ever mustered up the courage to ask Aziraphale out on a proper romantic date – and of course the even lower chance that he would say yes – he could wear the tie to properly impress. He briefly wondered what Aziraphale might wear on a date; he already dressed so appealingly that Crowley suspected any improvements in his outfit might have him passing out cold with sheer want.

They’d chosen to meet at the restaurant, both walking on the cool summer night rather than risk the gridlock of driving and the abysmal parking in Soho. The place was quaint, the road cobbled and blocked off by bollards, a long marquee of umbrellas ensuring there was plenty of outdoor seating for the summer months. Aziraphale was already waiting for him, standing in front of a yellow and pink floral display looking like he belonged in the Garden of Eden.

“Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale chirruped, walking forwards to meet Crowley in his stride. He reached out tentatively to guide Crowley’s elbow, then at the lack of any protest he looped his arm through Crowley’s own, “I thought we might sit outside, it’s so lovely out tonight.”

“Great idea, Angel,” Crowley nudged his shoulder gently, “What’s the consensus on getting a bit sloshed?”

“Oh, after dinner my dear, I should like to at least remember tasting the food.”

“Spoilsport,” Crowley grinned, leaving Aziraphale to greet the server and be led to their seats.

Crowley very quickly found that oysters were definitely not his thing. In fact, he didn’t think seafood was at all his thing; even seeing the word octopus on the menu made him feel a little queasy. He felt a bit out of place ordering Sirloin at an oyster bar, but at least he knew he would like it. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had his entire meal seemingly covering all types of ocean life; tuna sashimi to start, half a dozen oysters as an appetiser, with lobster thermidor for his main. And that didn’t include the dessert he’d yet to pick out. Crowley hastily added a fish soup to his order so Aziraphale wasn’t essentially eating alone the whole night.

He had still been nursing his rather nice soup when the oysters came out, and he couldn’t resist when Aziraphale had given him a hopeful look and asked him if he’d like to try one. As much as he wanted to please his Angel, it was impossible for him not to shudder as the oyster slid down his throat and the briny flavour stung his tongue.

“Nope,” he choked out, pushing the plate back to Aziraphale’s side before swigging down his wine, “I’m sorry Angel but that was gross.”

Aziraphale hid his smile behind his hand, “Really, my dear, you have no taste.”

“Ugh, it’s not the taste I’m bothered about,” he said, sticking out his tongue and grimacing, “It’s the texture. It’s so _slimy_.”

“All the more for me then,” Aziraphale grinned, then tipped the shell up and slurped the oyster down.

“I’ll stick with my soup, thanks,” he scoffed, stirring the broth and slopping it back into the bowl unappealingly.

Aziraphale continued to eat his oysters with relish, and if Crowley thought his appreciation wouldn’t spill over to the main course he was wrong. He happily tucked into his lobster, savouring each bite. Never one to be particularly hungry, and slightly full from just the soup alone, Crowley picked at his steak, even if he did find it delicious.

“Do you not like it, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked him, “It does look rather rare.”

“Hmm? No, s’good, I like it like this just... I’m not a big eater.”

“I should have guessed. You are rather skinny,” he said, then blinked, realising what he said, “Oh, forgive me, that was terribly rude.”

“Ha, I don’t mind, Angel,” Crowley said good-naturedly, “S’nothing that isn’t true. Funny, as much as I like to bake, I never really eat much of it. Probably why my flavours are usually off.”

“Well, you already know I love a good cake,” he cleared his throat, “And, ah, I guess it shows too.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Angel,” Crowley frowned.

“Isn’t it?”

“What? Of course not. You, er, you look good, Angel,” he fought back a blush unsuccessfully. There were many words he would describe Aziraphale as – beautiful, soft, plump, warm, handsome, cuddly, wonderful, chubby – and none he would dare say out loud, “I like you as you are, if that’s worth anything.”

Aziraphale didn’t look convinced, but Crowley could tell it was a touchy subject for him. He wanted to reassure him, tell him that he was perfect, but something stopped him from showing all his cards when he wasn’t sure if they were even playing the same game.

“I do mean it,” he said instead, with what he hoped was a genuine smile, “Not sure I could lie to you, what with that-” he gestured to Aziraphale’s eyes and very expressive face.

“My face?”

“Yeah, I mean, look at it, all that- that... angelic-ness,” Crowley replied, “Like being in a confessional, and I’ve never even been a Catholic.”

“Oh well,” he said haltingly, looking a little confused but still charmed, “Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome,” Crowley grinned, holding his wine glass out to clink with Aziraphale’s before downing what drink remained.

Eventually they were given dessert menus, and Crowley was relieved they were relatively normal dishes. He was feeling a bit citrusy today so chose a clementine sorbet and orange cake, ordering the paired wine too for the Hell of it. He was not surprised in the least that Aziraphale picked the sticky toffee pudding and its accompanying port, and only slightly had to dissuade him from a cheese platter that might have had them there another two hours.

They ate happily in comfortable silence, interspersed with the odd exchange, but there was something that Crowley had been curious about for a while and didn’t know how to raise. Aziraphale had told him that he’d essentially been ousted from his family before he was eighteen, and as far as he had learned he had saved enough for the bookshop, but never how exactly he did that, how he afforded the lovely outfits, and expensive restaurants, and the first editions.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked hesitantly.

“Hmm, yes my dear?” he spoke around a mouthful of port.

“Er, I don’t want to be nosy or anything, but, I guess I was just wondering how you afford all this?” he gestured around, encompassing the restaurant and Aziraphale’s outfit, “I mean, I thought you might have been old money at first, but from what you’ve told me about your family...” Crowley stopped and furrowed his brow, “Christ, that’s a massively invasive thing to ask isn’t it? Sorry.”

“No, no, darling, it’s alright. It’s a perfectly valid question I’ll be glad to answer,” Aziraphale reassured with a smile, “The bookshop is not exactly the most profitable of ventures, especially when I’m rarely willing to part with anything. I have, however, built up quite a reputation in terms of book repair, archiving, and suchlike. You would be surprised how well some people will pay to have a quality and, ah, discreet repair.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and smirked, “What’s there to be discreet about, Angel?”

He blushed, “Oh, you know. There are some rather racy tomes out there that influential people would rather not be associated with. A regular client of mine is actually a politician who specialises in collecting regency pornography.”

“The rich are some filthy bastards,” Crowley grinned, “I can picture it now, you trying to avert your innocent eyes from a lewd drawing of a salacious nun being thoroughly seduced by the devil. Priceless.”

Aziraphale gave him an amused look, “Hmm, well these ‘innocent eyes’ have more of an eyeful when I’m translating. I once translated a newly found 1600s supplement to the _Satyricon_ for the British Library; did you know Latin had dozens of words for very specific sexual obscenities?”

“Uh, I... did not know that. No.” Crowley gulped down his drink.

Aziraphale twirled his own port around by the stem, “Yes, dear, some of them are quite similar to our own. I’m sure you can guess what _cunnus_ means,” he said conversationally.

Crowley choked, both on his wine and a barked out laugh, “Alright, yeah, I get it, Angel.” He paused, “So, you do translations too?”

“Oh yes, Latin, Old English, Gaelic, Welsh, a little bit of Greek. I’ve been a consultant for a few museums and universities, as well as the private clients.”

“Christ, all I managed was very limited conversational French.”

“I was never any good at French. You’d think I would be, with the way it’s linked to Latin, but I can still never get used to the lack of declension.”

“I’m not even going to pretend to know what that means.”

“Oh, well, it’s the alteration of the nouns, pronouns, and adjectives in Latin, depending on the case, or numerical value, or gender. Unlike French, Latin has a neutral term as well as feminine and masculine, and no articles. And then there are the cases, of course, nominative, vocative, accusative, genitive, dative, ablative, and locative-“

“Angel don’t get me wrong, but I’m not sure I know enough about grammar to appreciate the, no doubt, genius explanation.”

“Sorry dear, you must tell me if I start to ramble, I know I can be bothersome sometimes.”

“Hey, no, that’s not true,” Crowley frowned, “I like listening to you ramble; just because I don’t understand it sometimes doesn’t mean I don’t find it interesting.”

Aziraphale gave him a tender look, “You’re really very sweet.”

“Na, I’m not. It’s all for personal gain, I swear,” he urged unconvincingly, “Means you have to listen to me blather on about the Bentley or Freddie Mercury and not complain.”

“I would gladly, darling.”

Crowley raised his brow at him, and smirked, “Well, in that case – did you know I once actually bumped into Freddie Mercury at a night club? It was the late eighties and I...”

Aziraphale settled his hands in his lap and listened delightedly to Crowley’s story.

* * *

Aziraphale was glad they hadn’t driven, because they didn’t have to worry about the Bentley when both of them were really rather tipsy. There hadn’t been any particular acknowledgement of Crowley walking Aziraphale home, but it was clear that he wasn’t making his way back to his Mayfair flat, and Aziraphale found he didn’t mind in the slightest. In fact, as soon as they reached the bookstore and Crowley dithered about saying goodbye, Aziraphale asked him if he would like to come in for a nightcap.

His backroom was somewhere that he’d previously considered his personal area, with his most beloved books and comfortable sofa, his little teakettle and tins of luxury hot chocolate, and his rare personal photographs, somewhere he’d never actually invited anyone into. But with Crowley he found himself wanting the man to enter, wanting him to make himself at home on the sofa with a drink and good conversation and that smile.

And so, he did.

And Crowley looked like he belonged there in all the ways Aziraphale hoped he would.

They chatted as freely as they had at dinner, drifting into talk about their bakes this weekend, but mostly delving into random topics that interested them; Crowley listened to Aziraphale enthuse about his favourite books and his less favourable customers, and Aziraphale to Crowley’s thoughtful but silly questions, sometimes about ducks and dolphins and sometimes about more philosophical things. They didn’t have too much in common, even some of their opinions on life differed significantly, but neither particularly minded, just interested in hearing what the other had to say.

Sometime after midnight, Crowley began to droop, blinking longer and longer as he rested his head on his arm on the back of the sofa. Aziraphale was in the middle of a rant about something or other, but stopped when he noticed Crowley, smiling sweetly at him.

“Oh, darling, you’re falling asleep.”

“Hmm? Wha- not,” he slurred, trying to keep his eyes open, “M’awake.”

“It’s alright, dear. I think it’s time we both slept,” he dared to brush Crowley’s hair back off his face affectionately, “Oh, but it’s far too late for you to walk back now. You’re very welcome to stay here.”

“Don’t want to put you out,” Crowley said, stumbling to his feet and teetering slightly, “M’off.”

“You wouldn’t be. And it would be dangerous for you to leave in this state,” Aziraphale worried.

“Alright then,” he said, flopping back down onto the sofa with no protest and puffing up the pillow behind his head, “I’ll just sleep here.”

“Oh, darling are you sure? Your feet are dangling off the edge; you’re going to get a crick.” Aziraphale paused, twisting the ring on his fingers, “You’re welcome to sleep upstairs, the bed is very comfortable.”

Crowley sat up but frowned, “Y’alright? Sharing the bed, with me?”

“Oh! I didn’t quite mean that but- if you’d be ok with that? I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Na, s’good. You’re very comfortable.”

Aziraphale studied him a moment more, then smiled and nodded, “Alright, my dear,” he helped Crowley to his feet, and steered him gently towards the stairs, “You’re more than welcome to borrow some pyjamas.”

“Are they tartan?” Crowley asked, letting himself be guided up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“I couldn’t possibly comment,” Aziraphale smiled as he sat him gently on the bed, and Crowley sleepily fell to lie on his side.

“Mmm, soft.”

Aziraphale tutted at him, and sat beside him to slide of his shoes, “Come on, dear, jacket off. Let me get you those pyjamas.”

He shuffled over to the dresser and pulled out a red tartan pyjama top and matching pants, “I’ll leave these on the bed, alright Crowley? I’m just going to pop to the bathroom.”

Aziraphale took his own clothes to the bathroom, a set of matching cream pyjamas, and took his time getting ready, brushing his teeth, washing and moisturising his face, and then folding his day clothes into a neat pile.

Opening the door as quietly as possible, he looked over to find Crowley already in bed, tartan collar peeking out over the duvet. The trousers were still folded on the bed, and Aziraphale blushed to think Crowley had chosen to only sleep in his underwear. He was on Aziraphale’s usual side, but he didn’t mind, and after setting his clothes and the spare pyjamas onto the dresser he happily joined him.

Flicking off the light, he whispered, “Goodnight, darling.”

“Mmm, night, Angel,” came the unexpected and murmured reply.

Aziraphale took one last look at Crowley’s face in the darkness, sighed happily, and settled down to sleep.

* * *

There was an alarm going off. Crowley did not set alarms. He scrunched his face up and groaned, reaching in the direction of the sound, but he couldn’t find the damned alarm clock from the angle. He was just resolving himself to sit up when the alarm stopped, and something shifted bedside him.

Peeking open an eye, last night’s sleepy decision came back to him.

He was in Aziraphale’s bed.

 _He_ was in _Aziraphale’s_ bloody _bed_.

It seemed he was right in his moniker of Angel, because Aziraphale looked especially like one there beside him, and, oh good Lord, he was _smiling._

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale said, voice thick with sleep, “I hope you slept well?”

“Ngk.”

“I should have known you wouldn’t be a morning person.”

“Wha time s’it?”

“Just past six, dear.”

“Fuck,” Crowley grumbled, burying his head in the pillow, “You’re a sadist.”

Aziraphale laughed, stroking back Crowley’s hair, “You’re welcome to sleep some more. I was just going to read for the next hour or so anyway.”

“Damn right I will.”

“Sleep well, darling.”

Crowley wasn’t sure if he was just tired to the point of delusion, or if Aziraphale really did lean down to press a kiss to his cheek.

* * *

It was past nine when Crowley finally woke, earlier than he usually would, but Aziraphale seemed to have the thinnest curtains imaginable that meant sunlight was shining directly on his face. For a moment he thought he’d been raptured or gone blind, both which seemed as miraculous as actually being in Aziraphale’s bed.

There was a lovely smell wafting in through the bedroom door that was left ajar, and the quiet sounds of a classical brass band and clattering of dishes. He took a moment to appreciate the whole experience as opposed to the norm of waking to blackout curtains, his radio blaring rock music, and the smell of stale coffee.

Soon though he forced himself out of bed, huffing fondly when he spotted his clothes neatly folded on the dresser. He pulled on his jeans, but left the pyjama top for now, merely unfastening a few of the buttons to his mid-chest and tucking it in so it looked less like a sack. The only mirror in the room was a small thing on the dresser, and he wobbled on the bed trying to angle it to see his whole appearance. He didn’t look terrible, he supposed, running his fingers through his hair to tame it a little, just a bit like it was laundry day and he’d had to make do with the dregs of his wardrobe.

Oh well, he still made it look good.

Leaving his feet bare, he hopped off the bed and made his way to the source of the commotion.

There were little knick-knacks he hadn’t noticed on his ascent last night, lots of fancy looking furniture with crochet doilies, expensive empty vases and religious themed ornaments, with what had to be an ancient Persian carpet atop a very plush carpet. The wallpaper was a Victorian style floral arrangement, and he really wasn’t surprised everything was so cosy and beige. He peeked into an open door as he passed, spotting the bathroom which he was relieved didn’t have an avocado suite, and decided to detour to use the loo and hopefully brush his teeth. He came out feeling much fresher, even if he had to use his finger to rub toothpaste onto his teeth.

“Crowley, is that you awake, dear?” Aziraphale shouted through to him as he left the bathroom, “Do come in, I’ve made you breakfast.”

“Coming, Angel!” he said, stepping around what looked like an actual amphora from ancient Greece, and finally into the kitchen.

It was more modern than he anticipated, with white-washed wooden cupboards and terracotta tiled floor. The benchtops were beige granite, and though he only had a rather old stand mixer and kettle on the surface, the dual range was new and expensive, and, huh, he didn’t even know they made cream coloured ovens. The tiles were cool beneath his feet, but there was a warmth reaching him that he couldn’t tell if was from the oven where the light framed some plaited loaves, or from Aziraphale dressed down in a soft cream cardigan beaming at him.

“Hello, darling!” he said, fussing with the kettle and pouring water into a surprisingly black mug, “I remember you like coffee in the morning, yes? I’m afraid it’s only instant, I only use it for baking coffee cake.”

“S’fine,” he said, taking the mug and noting that it seemed to be changing colour. The solid black gave way to bright white, only broken up by a rainbow heart.

“Oh! Do you like it? One of the lovely boys from the shop down the street gifted me it for Christmas last year,” Aziraphale said as he retrieved a pint bottle of milk from the fridge, an actual glass bottle as delivered by milkmen, and passed Crowley a pot of sugar, “I was terribly put out at first, I mean really, a plain black mug, but he showed me that it’s one of those genius colour changing paint formulas. And with a rainbow heart too! It’s so lovely to be in such an accepting neighbourhood.”

Crowley hummed, spooning two sugars and a splash of milk into his coffee, silently suspecting that this ‘lovely boy’ had a bit more in mind than giving his neighbour a Christmas gift out of the goodness of his heart. Instead he said, “It does suit you. In fact, the whole place does. You’ve somehow managed to infuse everything with comfort. S’nice.”

“Oh, do you think so? I’m very glad, my dear boy. Gabriel always tells me how messy and cluttered it is.”

“Gabriel?” Crowley frowned, “Isn’t that your brother? I thought you two didn’t talk anymore?”

Aziraphale busied himself with pulling the bread from the oven, lovingly setting it down on the stovetop, “Well, I didn’t, for a long while. But a few years ago I hoped to reach out and attempt a reconciliation of sorts. My parents weren’t getting any younger and neither was I, and now that I am in a safe place within myself I was ready to reach out on my own terms,” he moved to finish making his own tea, then stood shoulder to shoulder with Crowley holding his little tartan mug, “My parents allowed a very limited conversation over the phone before they made it clear their opinion hadn’t changed. But I made an effort to call Gabriel too, and whether it was his own personal regret or being forced to move with the times he at least spoke to me with civility and asked to meet. We- well, I wouldn’t say we got on, but it was manageable. And much easier than when I was a teenager.”

“I’ll bet. Still, can’t imagine you’d want him in your home.”

“I didn’t, as such. But my father died not too long after, and he had been caring for my mother who had mobility issues, and Gabriel came to ask me if I would give some money to fund her stay in a care home. Well, I say asked, he rather tried to guilt me into it, claiming it was my duty as a son to support her. Initially I wanted to refuse – I mean, they had cut me off and treated me abysmally – but then I thought how terrible of a person I’d be if I refused to help someone in need. So, I accepted.”

“You’re too good of a person sometimes, Aziraphale. At least better than me anyway. If my family asked me to support them I’d laugh myself unconscious and kick them to the curb. You don’t owe anything to them.”

“I know, dear. I did wrestle with it rather a lot. But, oh, I don’t know. It’s not like money is much of an object for me, and I know Gabriel would only give me grief about it otherwise. And well- I want to be a better person than them. I am a better person than them,” he said decisively.

“Damn right you are, Angel,” Crowley grinned, “I’ve never even met them, but I know they don’t deserve you.”

“I pity them really,” Aziraphale admitted, “How they’re so smallminded that they can’t see the beauty of the world, the beauty of love. I suppose it’s why I allow my siblings to visit me occasionally now, in the hope they’ll see something to change their mind. But so far, I think they only try to say in my good graces in the hope I’ll give them more money.”

“If they can look at you and not have a divine revelation then there’s no hope for them really.”

“Really, darling, you are laying it on a bit thick now.”

He sipped his coffee, “I mean every word.”

They drank happily in silence, enjoying the touch of their arms.

“So, Angel,” Crowley mused after he finished the last dregs of his coffee, “What’s that you’ve been baking?”

Aziraphale jolted at the question, setting his mug down on the counter as he drifted to the oven, “I was practicing some brioche, actually.”

“I thought the brief was a chocolate loaf?” he asked, peering over Aziraphale’s shoulder at the delectable looking loaves. He reached out to snag one, and had his hand batted away.

“Not yet! Let me cut it, at least,” he said, brandishing a bread knife, “And, well, yes that is true. But I do so love brioche and at least it’s a form of bread to practice with. And your orange cake last night had me thinking out how well it would pair with it.”

Aziraphale passed him a freshly cut slice which he took gladly, “Have you actually practiced any of the bakes so far? You seem to just make bakes adjacent.”

“I do suppose that’s true,” Aziraphale grinned, “I made them all when I was devising them, of course, but looking over each one I suddenly think how nice it would be to make other twists on the bakes. I wish I could change them in the show, but alas, at least I can make them here.”

Crowley scoffed down the bread, enjoying the taste so much he licked the sticky orange flavour from his fingers, “Mmm, the show’s loss is my gain. This is delicious, Angel.”

“Oh, thank you darling,” Aziraphale said between bites of his own, “Mmm, that is rather good, if I do say so myself.”

“S’that your plan for today then, just making bread? Not that I would be complaining.”

“I do have to open the shop at some point, unfortunately. But I’m sure I can do some quick kneads between proving without too much guilt,” Aziraphale frowned, “Actually, I’ve just remembered I have a repair due for Thursday! Oh, bugger, perhaps I should leave the shop closed.”

“Eh, well, I’d better leave you in peace, then. I’ve got some work to do myself; some astronomer type wanted me to paint him a union between his and his wife’s favourite nebulas,” Crowley said.

“Oh, how romantic!” Aziraphale sighed, “I’m sure your work is just darling. Though I’m afraid my only experience with art is when I modelled for a life drawing class in my twenties; they tried ever so hard but lacked a little realism.”

Crowley made a mental note to paint something for him one day, possibly something to capture just how angelic he was. And tried not to think about whether this life drawing class involved clothes or not.

“Ugh, I know what you mean. I modelled for some in university, mostly those classes elderly people wanting to get the most out of their retirement go to, and they really didn’t get proportion. Though I think this one woman deliberately exaggerated my- uh, certain parts for her own enjoyment.”

Aziraphale guffawed, “Oh yes, I do seem to remember people have a particular obsession with getting my genitals accurate. They did rather a good job too, even if the rest of me looked like a homunculus.”

Crowley laughed, and tried to cover the fact he was definitely thinking about Aziraphale naked now.

He cleared his throat, looking down at himself and tugged at the sleepshirt, “I should probably go get dressed and get out of this hideous tartan.”

“I must admit I’m rather smug you voluntarily wore tartan without even so much as a token protest.”

“Ha, well, don’t get used to it,” he said, beginning to unbutton the shirt then and there in the kitchen, giving Aziraphale an even greater eyeful of his chest before he turned back to the bedroom to get changed proper, smugly enjoying the flush he saw on his angel’s face.

* * *

They’d had another drink and slice of brioche together before Crowley departed, Aziraphale inviting him to the shop again on Tuesday night after suggesting they practice baking together since he had one of the judges cookbooks on bread that was sure to come useful in the technical. Crowley wasn’t too concerned about actually practicing, but he wouldn’t say no to spending more time with Aziraphale if he could.

Something had certainly shifted a little since last night, perhaps due to the casual domesticity that seemed to come easy to them. Aziraphale had never been particularly guarded, per se, but he often carried a tension with him that Crowley suspected was a form of trust issues stemming from his family. It seemed whatever they had shared had knocked down one of his walls and allowed him to be freer with his invitations rather than worrying he’d be bothering Crowley by asking. Crowley only hoped the re-emergence of Aziraphale’s siblings in his life didn’t do anything to disrupt his continuing happiness.

Either way, Crowley wanted to remain in Aziraphale’s life as long as he would have him.

Crowley had sauntered up to the bookshop the next afternoon, wanting to at least give Aziraphale some of the day to do his actual job. He’d made sure to call ahead, of course, and had picked up Thai food from takeaway near his flat, as well as some of the ingredients he planned to use for his bread recipes.

What had initially started as a relaxing baking session had rather quickly devolved into drunkenly trying to bake flatbreads while eating reheated Pad Gra and giggling madly. The bread was a disaster, and the hangover head-splitting, but they’d shared the bed again and went out for a salty, fatty, carb filled breakfast hangover cure.

On Wednesday they tried again, this time with less wine and more actual baking, actually managing to make a fair few loaves over the course of the evening. Crowley had practiced his bagels meticulously, though he used store bought tomatoes instead of the ones from his greenhouse that he planned to utilise for his official bake, insisting on making the whole two-dozen batch of sweet and savoury so they all looked perfect. Aziraphale had shook his head fondly, instead using his chosen flavours to make a simple cob loaf rather than worrying about the technicalities of producing bagels. Though in the end their palettes were slightly compromised by the lovely bottle of whiskey they had been savouring.

He didn’t stay over again that night, but Aziraphale called him mid-morning the next to day to ask a favour of him, though an outing with Aziraphale to a bookfair in Oxford was hardly a hardship for Crowley. The drive was as wild as always, but they’d had a lovely lunch out in Oxford in between visiting some of Aziraphale’s contacts and buying some new first editions. Crowley had even spotted a few volumes on plant care that weren’t totally money grabs and bought a sculpture from one seller who had taken the chance to display a variety of artwork as well as his collection of books. They had such a relaxing day that Aziraphale barely even complained about his speed on the way home.

Aziraphale had decided to close the shop again on Friday so that they could get some last minute baking in before they left for the hotel, and it was a testament to Crowley’s fondness for the blonde that he voluntarily got up before eight for him

Figuring they’d eat some of what they made for breakfast anyway, Crowley only stopped to get himself an espresso and Aziraphale a hot chocolate, complete with all the trimmings. He knocked as best he could with his elbow, then backed his way into the shop.

“It’s me Angel!” he said over the bell tinkling.

There was no immediate reply, but that wasn’t so unusual when Aziraphale was engrossed in something. He made sure the door sign was still flipped to close and made his way up to the flat with a grin, balancing the drinks in each hand.

His footsteps must have been loud enough to disturb Aziraphale, for before he was halfway up he called out, “Crowley, darling, is that you?” and appeared at the top of the stairs, “Oh, hello dear!”

“Got you a hot chocolate,” Crowley said, passing him the drink as he reached the hallway, “So, what are we baking today then?”

“Oh, Crowley, cream and marshmallows too?” he said delightedly, following Crowley into the kitchen, “You’re much too good.”

Crowley waved the praise away, “Yeah, yeah, enough of that now. So, I thought it’d try my chocolate loaf again; I need to sort out the caramel aspect before tomorrow.”

“Wonderful idea, darling, but I must say the last loaf you made was scrumptious,” Aziraphale said, retrieving a teaspoon from his cutlery drawer and using it to scoop the cream from his drink, “And I thought I’d make some hot cross buns today.”

Crowley watched him raptly as Aziraphale savoured the marshmallow and cream mix, “Do you- do you always do that?”

He paused, “Do what?”

“That,” he gestured to the spoon, “Eat the cream separate?”

“Well, of course!” he pointedly ate another mouthful, “It gets wasted if you just try and drink it.”

“Wha- no it doesn’t,” Crowley argued, “You mix it in and its makes it creamier and more delicious.”

Aziraphale grimaced, “Oh, no, it’s much too sickly then. No, a lovely sweet treat beforehand, and a nice rich cocoa to finish.”

“I’ve never seen anyone eat it like that,” he paused, “Actually, I have; children. Children eat it like that.”

“Perhaps we should take notes from the younger generation then. They seem to have marvellous ideas.”

Crowley snorted, “Yeah, right, you hate anything that wasn’t around before the nineties.”

“That is simply not true – I am rather fond of that film adaptation of The Importance of Being Earnest from the early noughties.”

“I’m not sure acting out a play that was written a hundred years ago counts.”

“Oh, hush you,” Aziraphale griped, “If we continue bickering all morning we’ll never get any baking done, and I really am craving a hot cross bun.”

“Alright, alright, don’t let me get in between you and your food,” he smirked, sliding past Aziraphale to pull out a mixing bowl from the cupboard, “Don’t worry, I’ll let you take your frustrations out on the dough.”

“Really now, as if I need your permission,” Aziraphale said with a glint in his eye, “I’ve been pretending my dough is Gabriel for years.”

* * *

The atmosphere in the tent was the tensest it had been so far, the challenge of bread week looming over the bakers. There was a lot to go wrong, kneading, proving, baking, and with a self-proclaimed bread expert as a judge the pressure was on. Crowley wasn’t terribly concerned; he had his meticulous timings calculated and memorised and had practiced enough to fill the bakery shelves at Sainsburys. He only hoped his chocolate and salted caramel combination wasn’t too simple, and the texture wasn’t too wet.

Aziraphale looked calm at his bench – two places in front and to left – surveying his array of ingredients as the production crew finished setting up, a serenity about him that seem to emanate from him and flow into those in his immediate vicinity. As far as Crowley knew from their baking sessions, Aziraphale had only made his signature dish twice, a truly delicious dark chocolate and sweet cherry loaf that on first bake had been a little underdone, and on the second practically perfect. He had seemed to be satisfied with the bake then and chose instead to bake various random bread recipes from one of the judges cookbooks that took his fancy. Crowley’s mouth quirked up at the memory of Aziraphale drooling over a stilton and walnut soda bread he’d whipped up, and the practically orgasmic moan he’d let out when he tried it.

“Right,” the director yelled, interrupting his thoughts, “Action in 3, 2, 1...”

The presenters recited their opening lines to the bakers, and the judges pierced them all with their practiced gaze, and all too soon they were set to work, mixers whirring amid sounds of dough being beaten into submission. It was nice to slip into the kneading frame of mind, mindlessly staring around the room and just feeling the way the dough worked beneath his hands. He allowed his gaze to wander to Aziraphale, he too working his mix, his shoulders looking marvellous as he did so. He’d forgone his usual overcoat in favour of the soft cream cardigan Crowley had complimented him on last week, and it only made him look more lovely and soft.

“Careful not to overwork that,” a voice came from his left, and he looked over with some embarrassment as he noticed the judges and presenters poised beside him, eye of the camera staring over their shoulder.

He was being given a very knowing look from the presenters, their eyes flitting from him to Aziraphale as they judges talked.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling it into shape and patting the dough ball lightly, “Was just finishing up, actually,” he grabbed a mixing bowl and dumped the dough into it.

The judges peered over at it, “So, what are you making?”

He told them.

“And is the caramel in the dough itself?”

“No, no, it’s going to be folded into the middle, sort of layered in with the dough, and then some on top too.”

“Hmm,” the judgemental stare was not encouraging, “And do you just have cocoa powder in or...?”

“There’s also white chocolate chunks throughout, just for that extra sweetness.”

“Right. Carry on then,” they said, giving his dough one last look before turning to Victoria’s bench.

Crowley rolled his eyes at the attempted dominance, covering the bowl and sliding it into the proving draw. He made sure the oven was set to the right temperature, set his timer, and begin to clean up his bench. It had only taken him twenty minutes to work up the dough, and with the first prove he had at least an hour to make the caramel, perhaps even less time with how warm it was in the tent. He set the washed bowl and spoon to one side and got started on the caramel.

He melted the sugar dry, wanting to have a thicker sauce, and kept a sharp eye on it until its colour changed, quickly adding in the butter, cream, vanilla, and a spoonful of salt. The cream had thankfully been left out, so it wasn’t cold enough to make the caramel clump up, and he mentally gave himself an extra five minutes free for not having to heat it for longer. It smelled amazing, and only the promise of a burnt finger and tongue stopped him from sampling it. He quickly transferred the caramel to a glass jug and left it to cool a little.

It wasn’t often that the bakers had any free time to wash up, but with his proving only half done he took the time to properly scrub about the caramel from the pan, his gaze once again making its way to Aziraphale. He was only just putting his bread in the proving draw, but Crowley wasn’t worried for him; he seemed to have the uncanny ability to have the dough perfectly risen based on pure instinct rather than any real timings. Aziraphale was keeping it simple, relying on his flavours to wow the judging rather than anything particularly technical, so for now he really was done for the next hour. He watched him look around surreptitiously, pull out a book from a shelf beneath the bench, and lock eyes with Crowley.

Aziraphale looked a little abashed at being caught trying to read again but held up the book in front of him to show him the cover with a sheepish grin. Crowley couldn’t see the title for the life of him but took the encounter as an invitation to turn off the tap and slink over to his bench.

“You alright?” he asked, just stopping himself from calling him ‘Angel’ when he knew the cameras were lurking nearby, “Finished Les Mis?”

“Oh, my dear, I finished that days ago,” Aziraphale said, “I thought I’d have a re-read of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”

Crowley raised his eyebrow, “Scandalous. Full of four letter words. Or six letters, if we go with your Latin phrasebook.”

“Of course that’s what you would focus on,” he pouted, “I like it for the story, the romance!”

“Hmm, and the handsome blacksmith-come-soldier-come-gamekeeper with an insatiable libido has nothing to do with it?”

“I wouldn’t say he’s insatiable, exactly. The whole point is the tenderness, and the passionate bond between them!” he said wistfully.

“To be honest I’ve only ever seen the TV series with Sean Bean. Got more of an eyeful from that than from any book I’ve ever read.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks reddened, “I don’t know, imagination is a powerful thing,” he said with a glint in his eye.

“Ngk,” Crowley spluttered, but before he could properly reply the timer at his bench went off.

* * *

The judges liked both of their chocolate loaves well enough, praising Crowley’s bake and Aziraphale’s flavour, but it was Adam who got a handshake, his double chocolate and peanut butter plait bread otherworldly. Jesus, however, did not do so well. He’d already got raised eyebrows for his choice of frankincense and white chocolate, which tasted strangely piney and gingery and orangey but completely overwhelmed the white chocolate, and he had completely forgotten the yeast, meaning the bread wouldn’t rise even given three days.

The bread technical was always a little hit or miss, Crowley thought, sometimes it was something as simple as a cottage loaf, but other times it was something like dampfnudel. In the green room Gwen had been convinced it would be a non-yeasted bread, telling everyone how she’d made so many soda breads her family had banned bread from the house. Shadwell had narrowed his eyes at her, grumbling something about intuition and predicting the future and, inexplicably, nipples.

Crowley and Aziraphale continued a heated debate as they waited about the merits of books versus on screen adaptations, Aziraphale having to concede that the visual of Colin Firth in his lake wet shirt in Pride and Prejudice was incredibly appealing, and Crowley having to concede that having the freedom to imagine an historically accurate Mr Darcy swimming about naked was similarly alluring. Aziraphale was just on the verge of winning with his argument about poor adaptations of War of Worlds when the producers called everyone back into the tent for the technical, but not without Crowley promising to play the entirety of Jeff Wayne’s musical version on the drive home to prove him wrong.

Soon enough they were at their benches again, secret ingredients hidden underneath patterned tea towels as the presenters dismissed the judges and made the obligatory bread puns for the day. Crowley was rather dismayed to find out it was hot cross buns for the technical, something he’d never actually eaten before. He’d seen them before, of course, had even watched Aziraphale whip up a batch in his practicing, but something about their association to a religion he didn’t believe in had always stopped him from indulging in them. That and the fact he didn’t like sultanas.

Most people seemed pleased though, Aziraphale especially, who had most likely made enough hot cross buns in his youth for Church bake sales to fund the next series of the Bake Off. To say the recipe was pared back would be an understatement, and it was a stark comparison to the comprehensive recipes Aziraphale been following all week. The cameramen made sure to get several shots of the bakers grinning or frowning the camera, rejoicing in their baking prowess, or lamenting their lack of preparation, and caught Crowley in the middle of a sarcastic repetition of the instruction to ‘make a sweet dough’. Gwen was grumbling at her bench; furious her soda breads had been pointless.

He chopped the apples and grated the orange zest with mild confusion, not remembering apples having any part in hot cross buns but tossed them into the soft dough as instructed anyway. Whether by extreme mercy or just time constraints they hadn’t been required to make the apricot jam glaze, so it was another hour of proving after kneading and, aside from Marie who had to redo her much too wet dough, the rest of the bakers were all standing around making half-hearted small talk, or worriedly setting and resetting their timers. They only had two and a half hours, which cut things quite fine for the second prove and bake, but it was warm enough yet that Crowley reckoned he could get away with only a forty-five minute first prove, and a half hour second.

Crowley was just setting his timer as such when he felt the presence of someone beside him, and he looked up with disdain as he thought it was the presenters hoping to film a bit, but quickly schooled his features into a smile when he turned to see it was Aziraphale.

“Angel!” he exclaimed, “What happened to the book?”

“I’m afraid I’ve finished it already; it was very gripping.”

“Ah, I see, I’m the last resort.”

“Hmm, yes, I tried to talk to Jesus, but he was having a bit of a bother, so I guess you’ll have to do.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, “Charming. How’s it going for you, then? Don’t think I didn’t notice how pleased you were to hear the words ‘hot cross buns’.”

“Oh, well can you blame me? I’ve made so many of them in my time it’s almost second nature.”

“Thought you might have. I’ve got a mental image of thirteen year old you at a Christian bake sale trying to foist hot cross buns off the elderly ladies for four quid each.”

Aziraphale laughed loudly, “My, that is remarkably accurate. If you’re good I might even have a picture or two in an album somewhere to prove it.”

“I’m never good,” Crowley protested, “But I might make an exception if embarrassing photos are involved.”

“Come now, the least you could do is offer me a photo in return. I do believe you mentioned an ill-advised mullet once?”

“Hey!” he warned, “We do not speak of that disaster. Thank god it was before digital cameras and I could burn all the evidence.”

“Oh, but I’m sure you would have looked just lovely with the moustache to match.”

“See me ever confiding in you again,” Crowley pouted, doing his best to hide face-splitting grin.

Aziraphale beamed at him in return, “Alright then dear, I shan’t mention it again. Or the goatee.”

Crowley grumbled at him good-naturedly as he watched Aziraphale’s shaking shoulders retreat to his bench.

After his timer rang off, he knocked back the dough, weighing it out and portioning it into equal gram pieces. He set his timer for half an hour, then set about mixing the paste for the cross, a simple mix of water and flour. Being cautious with his addition of water, he spooned it in a tablespoon at a time, and filled the piping bag when it was ready. It hadn’t taken him long to whip it up, so he stood around and attempted to waste twenty minutes, resting his head on his palm on the bench and watching to see how long it took for Shadwell to notice the dough in his hair. Eventually though they were done, and he skilfully piped the crosses on the top, and slid them into the oven just as the presenter called out “Bakers, you have half an hour remaining!”

Once all of his clean-up was done, Crowley started on heating the apricot jam, careful not to burn it as he set up the sieve and fished the pastry brush from the drawer. He pulled the golden brown buns from the oven and finished them with a coating of the apricot jam before serving on the slate they provided.

Crowley was happy enough to come in fourth place but was surprised that the judges had only ranked Aziraphale third; he had excellent flavour and texture, but each bun was a little inconsistent. It was Shadwell who came first, and no-one was more shocked than the man himself, who could only ramble about the help of someone he, hopefully jokingly, called ‘jezebel’. Marie had narrowly come in second, but Gwen and Jesus hadn’t fared so well, both being massively underdone.

* * *

Their usual Saturday night drink was a bit more communal, everyone feeling comfortable enough with each other now that the small talk was less awkward. Neither of them particularly minded, everyone was nice enough, but Crowley could see Aziraphale flagging before eleven, his social energy having run out. He’d found they were both pretty similar in that respect, happy enough to socialise and enjoy themselves, but it was tiring after a while. Crowley stretched a little, and then stood, making the motions to head up to bed, which Aziraphale gladly took as the intended excuse to depart too.

They’d been given rooms down the hall from each other this time, and they hovered in the corridor outside Crowley’s door.

“Crowley, dear, do you mind terribly if I don’t join you for a drink tonight?” Aziraphale fretted, “Only, I’m really rather tired from, well, the long day, I suppose.”

“No, no, that’s fine Angel, I’m a bit tired myself,” Crowley reassured, “We have to be up early anyway, in best baking form.”

“Yes, exactly,” he said, a sleepy smile on his face, “I shall see you tomorrow, darling. I hope you dream of whatever you like best.”

Crowley bit back his response that in that case he would be dreaming of Aziraphale, and instead pressed a palm to his upper arm and stroked his thumb along the knit of his cardigan, “See you tomorrow, Angel.”

* * *

Aziraphale’s showstopper bagels were exactly the sort of thing Crowley had expected him to make – decadent and delicious, his savoury ones rich in fig, walnut, and gruyere, and his sweet stuffed with blueberries and white chocolate. As far as Crowley could see they were rather rustic in appearance, some bigger than others, some more roll like than a bagel, and when the judges had mentioned it Aziraphale had merely said “Well, I rather think the charm of baking is the in individuality of each bake,” which, unsurprisingly, didn’t convince the judges as much as it made Crowley snort.

Gwen redeemed herself after a nightmare of a technical, her cinnamon and cranberry bagels getting standout praise, as well as Adam’s pepperoni pizza bagels, but Jesus wasn’t doing well, again. His sweet wine and cherry bagels tasted alright, but the caramelised almond brittle on the top was reminiscent of a ring of thorns.

Crowley brought his own bagels to the front with his patented swagger, quietly proud of the consistency of his batches, practically mirror images of each other down to the decoration. He set them down on the gingham covered tabled, pausing to straighten the edge of the plate and wipe away a stray crumb.

“Now these look very good,” the judges said, admiring their uniformity, “So, what have you got for us?”

“Those are the tomato and thyme,” he said as they picked up his savoury batch.

“And am I right in saying you grew the tomatoes yourself?” the presenter piped up.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

The judges were silent as they tasted it, not altogether encouraging looks on their faces, “It’s got a great texture, but the taste is just not there; it’s very bland.”

“I’m afraid I agree, the tomato is very faint, and the thyme isn’t giving me the wow factor.”

“Uh, ok,” Crowley accepted, rubbing the back of his neck, “The others are orange and tequila.”

“Hmm, yes, just as I thought,” the judges said after a substantial bite, “The orange has completely overpowered the tequila, you really needed more of it and less orange.”

Crowley bit his cheek to hide is disappointed frown. Sure his flavours weren’t ambrosia, but they weren’t _that_ bad. He nodded to the judges as he took his tray and left, too busy balancing the food to get a chance to look over at the apologetic frown Aziraphale was sending his way.

He wasn’t overly concerned, his signature and technical good enough that he didn’t think he was particularly at risk, but he was rather more frustrated that the flavours had let him down again, even with some of the tips Aziraphale had given him in their sessions.

“I thought they tasted good, my dear,” Aziraphale said to him in the green room, “When you baked them at home they were scrumptious.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Crowley said, “Obviously it didn’t work out today, though.”

“Please don’t be upset, darling,” he replied worriedly, “I think you’ve done more than enough to go through.”

“Huh? Wha- no, I’m not upset, Angel,” Crowley quickly corrected, smiling something half-real to reassure him, “I was just mulling it over really. Wondering if it was my tomatoes, the bastards.”

“The ones you grew yourself?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I encouraged them enough, the slackers. I praise them _one time_ and they think they can do whatever they want to.”

“Oh, good lord, you talk to your plants, don’t you?”

“Sure do, Angel. You’ve got the let them know their place, don’t let them get complacent. Can’t afford any kind words.”

“Oh, good lord, you _yell_ at your plants, don’t you? I should have known, the way you ‘encourage’ bread to rise.”

Crowley grinned wolfishly, “It’s the best method. Tomatoes aside, I have the most verdant plants in all of London. I’ll show you sometime, only if you promise not to say a nice word to them.”

Aziraphale sighed fondly, “I can’t believe you’ve given your plants a complex.”

* * *

When they were called back in they all lined up again on their stools, Crowley squished between Aziraphale and Marie in the centre of the cluster. She kept looking at him oddly while the presenters got their make-up touched up, fluttering her eyelashes and leaning heavily into him. Crowley leaned even more towards Aziraphale, the blond balancing himself with a hand on the back of Crowley’s stool, his arm solid and warm behind him. He supposed he could forgive Marie her flirting if this was the result.

Aziraphale didn’t move away, even when the presenters stood up to the mark and the cameras began to roll.

“Welcome back bakers. The judges have finished their bagels and their deliberations, and I have the pleasure of announcing today’s star baker,” the presenter said dramatically, “Today’s star baker is someone who’s chocolate loaf was nut-oriously good, and who’s bagels gave us a real pizza of heaven – it’s Adam!”

Adam smiled, nodding his head happily as Warlock and Gwen bundled him into a celebratory hug. Aziraphale relinquished his hand from the stool in order to applaud, but as quickly as it left it returned. Crowley caught his eye and they both smiled, Aziraphale nudging him slightly with his body and keeping close.

The furore died down, and the other presenter stepped forward with a sombre expression, “Sadly, we do have to say goodbye to one of you, and that person is...” they paused dramatically, “Jesus. I’m so sorry my lovely.”

Jesus looked rather forlorn, but he was putting on a brave face for the cameras, “It is finished,” he said to himself, then louder, “Thank you everyone, I’ve loved every minute.”

Having already been star bakers, the producers clearly thought they’d had enough footage of Aziraphale and Crowley for now and let them go wait in the minibus with only a small declaration of happiness to the camera. They had been keen to grab Jesus, Gwen, Adam, and Shadwell though, each having been something of the focus for the episode, so the bus was fairly empty. The others were already fretting about next week’s challenge, but Aziraphale was regaling Crowley with a story about how he misplaced an ancient sword at the British Museum after someone had mistakenly handed him the artefact to clean.

“How on earth do they trust you with ancient manuscripts after that?” Crowley laughed.

Aziraphale’s cheeks reddened, “Well, they never actually mentioned it again.”

“You what?”

“Ah, well, after I los- _misplaced_ it, I was worrying myself silly about what I should say to the director, but ah, they never noticed. Or, at least they never came to me if they did!”

Crowley guffawed, “I can’t believe this. Luck of the devil, you’ve got.”

“I prefer to think of it as a guardian angel looking down on me,” Aziraphale said, leaning closer to Crowley as the bakers who had finished their interviews began to board.

“Ha, you would, Angel,” Crowley ginned, settling back in his seat as they headed back to the hotel and the promise of another enchanting meal with Aziraphale on the drive back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus has left the building!
> 
> I’ve accidentally gotten into the habit of making the Bake Off dishes I propose here... Well, sort of, this time. I made simple chocolate and hazelnut bread, and cheese and onion buns instead of bagels but they taste alright to my very amateur palette. That aside, I really am not an experienced baker at all and all the waffle about timings and tastes and textures are from reading various food blogs and watching the UK bake-off.  
> Also, the Jesus related stuff was hard to come up with; at one point I was going to have a bread crucifix sculpture but hopefully the hot cross buns and ring of thorn bagels are close enough??? And the fact that they, heh, would take three days to rise with that recipe *finger guns* 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Week 4 - Alternative Ingredients

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s that? Actual plot? Relationship progression? A mature rating??? That’s right, we’ve reached ‘arrangement’ week – to me synonymous with ~romance~
> 
> This chapter is (unofficially) sponsored by ‘Fleetwood Mac – Gypsy’ because that’s just what I’m vibing to right now. 
> 
> Featuring me trying to describe Aziraphale as anything other than lovely, and actually not having baked any of these recipes for once!
> 
> Mild warning for drunk sex - it's established explicitly by both of them that while they have consumed alcohol they are not impaired by it and both do consent

Crowley didn’t often do a deep clean of his flat, but that was mostly because he was a very clean and tidy person anyway. Still, even if his flat was spotless before he stocked up on various cleaning products, there was some unfathomable urge he had right now to clean _everything._

Of course it was probably something to do with the fact that Aziraphale was coming around in about three hours.

They’d begun an unspoken agreement to spend the week baking together in between their respective jobs, and while Aziraphale had hosted each time previously, today Crowley had invited him around to his own flat for the first time.

And he was panicking a little bit.

He knew it didn’t really make sense, he’d never really been concerned about the state of his home before, but he really wanted Aziraphale to like it, to want to come back here. And his flat could not be further from Aziraphale’s own, in practically every way; he was all about sleek lines, monochrome colours, and minimalism, where Aziraphale was decidedly not. The bookshop wasn’t unclean, per se, the amount of dust on some of the shelves was to be expected with such a large space, but it was very cluttered, in a homely way. Everywhere had little mementos of a life lived, in photos, and ornaments, and trinkets, all of which Crowley’s flat sorely lacked. The most he had was neatly stacked canvases in his office, his selection of plants, and the sculpture he had picked up at the bookfair last week.

Since he’d extended the invitation he’d been to the shops four times, stopping at Marks and Spencer’s to buy a throw and some cushions for his massively uncomfortable sofa, then at ASDA for some Flash and cloths, and then back to Marksies for a pair of pyjamas for Aziraphale on the off chance he stayed over and didn’t bring his own, and finally took the Bentley to ALDI to stock up on £50 worth of baking supplies.

The Flash was already gone, and the apartment smelled like Kim and Aggie had paid him a visit by the time his doorbell buzzed and Aziraphale’s tinny voice rang out through the intercom system.

_“Crowley, dear, it’s Aziraphale.”_

He tossed the empty bottle in the bin and the cloth into the sink, then pressed the intercom to reply, “I’ve buzzed you in, Angel. Just wait in the foyer and I’ll come and get you, yeah?”

He didn’t wait for a reply, grabbing his key fob and slipping on his shoes before taking the lift down to the bottom floor.

Aziraphale was waiting for him with his hands behind his back, looking at the various name plates on the letter boxes with disinterest. He turned as soon as the door pinged, his face breaking out into a beaming smile when he spotted Crowley, “Hello, darling!”

“Hey Angel, you alright?” Crowley asked, joining him where he stood.

“I’m wonderful, my dear. And you?”

“Great, I’m doing great,” Crowley said, fishing around in his pockets for his keys, “Actually, s’good thing you’re over here; I keep forgetting to check if I have any post.”

“Honestly, darling, what if you had something important?” Aziraphale tutted, moving out of the way so Crowley could unlock the box.

He swiped up the few letters in there, tossing some junk mail in the bin nearby and sifting through the others, “Na, anything important gets emailed to me. I just sometimes get paper bills from the council because they can’t be arsed to go paperless yet.”

Crowley pocketed the few usual letters, and gestured Aziraphale to follow him into the lift.

“Oh, I abhor emails,” Aziraphale shuddered while Crowley pressed the button for the penthouse, “It was all so lovely when we used to only send letters to each other! But I was practically forced to buy a computer a few years back, and a customer helped me to set up an email account. It took most of the afternoon.”

Crowley snorted, “I’ll bet. No offence, Angel, but you are the least technologically advanced person I have ever met. And that includes Shadwell, he at least has a mobile.”

“Oh, hush you,” Aziraphale huffed, “I like doing things the old-fashioned way.”

“Hmm, well, good job I’ve got enough technological prowess to balance you out then,” Crowley grinned, leading Aziraphale to his door down the corridor from the lift.

“What a lovely sentiment,” Aziraphale looked at him fondly, “Oh! Is this it? I really should have guessed you’d have the penthouse suite.”

“Yeah, welcome to my humble abode!” he said with feigned confidence, opening the door dramatically.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale exclaimed, “This is just lovely! It’s like a show home.”

“Eh, it’s not bad, I guess,” Crowley said as he took Aziraphale’s coat, “Just leave your shoes by the door. Or, er, you can leave them on, if that’s more comfortable.”

Aziraphale unexpectedly crouched down in front of unlace his shoes, and Crowley had to step back for his own self-preservation at the image the blonde kneeling at his feet.

“Ah, er, I’ll, uh, I’ll put the kettle on, yeah?” Crowley blathered, hurrying off to the kitchen with reddened cheeks.

He pulled down a tray from his topmost cupboard, dislodging a container or two in the process, and then piled the different boxes of tea he’d bought along with two plain black mugs. He didn’t have a teapot, but filled a cafetière with hot water, brought the full bag of sugar, and shoved the two-pinter of milk onto the remaining tray space. Willing himself not to drop the overweight tray, he carefully carried it to the living room and crouched to place it on the coffee table, only dropping two of the teabag boxes along the away.

Aziraphale wasn’t waiting in the living room, or in the hallway as he expected, but his jacket was neatly folded over the back of the sofa, so at least he was somewhere about the place. The door to his plant room was open though, and he left their drinks to investigate.

“Angel?” he called, even as he rounded the corner to see Aziraphale admiring his plants. The room was the brightest in the flat, owing to the floor-to-ceiling window and skylight he’d installed when he’d bought the place, and the early evening sunlight was doing wonderful things for Aziraphale’s visage. He looked soft and ethereal, just in his duck-egg blue shirt, signature linen trousers, and adorable gold and blue paisley bowtie with matching socks.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale cooed, caressing the leaf of his bird’s nest fern, “Aren’t these just darling? My dear boy, you hardly did them justice,” he turned to the small vegetable area, “Oh, and don’t these tomatoes look scrumptious.”

“Hey! Don’t use that language around them!” Crowley complained, “That’s how they cost me the showstopper.”

“You were barely in danger of losing darling,” Aziraphale said as he cupped a green tomato between his fingers, and then moved to the basil plant, rubbing the leaves between his fingers, “I tasted your bagels and I would hardly call them bland. I mean, I suppose if one were to eat them plain then they could be considered so, but why would you eat a plain bagel when you could have Mozzarella with it? Or, oh, perhaps some onion chutney too. Mmm, sublime.”

“Well, nice to know you found them tolerable at least,” Crowley said, and while there was some sarcasm behind it, there was truth in the fact that Aziraphale’s opinion would always matter more to him than the judges’.

“They were more than tolerable, my dear! I think it’s rather silly they judge purely on the taste of the bake when oftentimes the garnishes and trimmings are just as part of the whole experience of the dish.”

“I suppose so. Though I think you managed well enough without.”

“On the contrary, I would much rather have had a plain bagel laden with gruyere and some lovely fig and walnut chutney I discovered at the farmers market last year. So much of the flavour just gets masked by the bread.”

Crowley privately made a note of his preference and vowed to surprise Aziraphale with some of the chutney sometime. Aziraphale was cooing over the plants again, making delighted noises as he discovered more of the veritable Eden.

“Are you going to use any of these for this week’s bake? I thought I saw some courgettes back there,” Aziraphale asked, looking over the back of the bulk of leaves on his tip-toes.

“Oh god no, store bought this time. I don’t care how they were grown, just as long as they actually have flavour unlike certain plants...” he glared threateningly at his plants.

Aziraphale stroked the ruby petal of a kalanchoe, “Don’t listen to that fiend my darlings, you are just lovely!”

“Well, I guess if you like them so much I’ll have to leave you here to bond with my plants while I drink some excellent tea,” Crowley teased.

“Now, dear, let’s not be hasty,” he said placatingly, smiling as he followed Crowley back into the living room. He beamed wider when he spotted the assortment of teas as he sat against the new cushions.

“What would you like?” Crowley asked from where he was still standing, gesturing to the selection, “Got your favourites; lemon and ginger, peppermint and nettle, er – what’s this? – oh, rooibos, oolong, and good old fashioned PG Tips.”

“I rather think I fancy a classic PG Tips, my dear,” he said, leaning forward with hovering hands, and adding his milk and sugar as Crowley fixed his own, “You needn’t have gone out of your way, darling,” Aziraphale praised, “Don’t think I didn’t notice the tartan throw.”

Crowley blushed a little, “Just wanted to make sure it was comfortable is all. Everyone always complains about the sofa, and really compared to yours it’s a brick,” he paused, “Not that I entertain much, er, but I have a few people around every now and then, Anathema, her boyfriend, er, some exes, before.”

“Anathema?” Aziraphale prodded, stirring his tea and tactfully avoiding the mention of his past relationships.

“Oh, she’s a great girl, very witchy. We run in the same circles, she dabbles in art, collects plants, likes everything occult. Newt’s her boyfriend; good kid, into computers apparently, but he’s like the kiss of death when it comes to them.”

“Ah, he’s a little like myself then,” he joked, then said sincerely, “They do sound lovely, dear.”

“You’d like Anathema best, she’s a big reader. Well, mostly occult stuff like I said, but I swear I saw her reading the same bodice rippers you have lying around.”

“They are not bodice rippers! They are romantic fantasy novels,” Aziraphale said indignantly.

“Hmm, what was it you were reading last? Was it ‘Sweet Savage Love’ or ‘Wild Scottish Embrace’?”

“Alright, alright, you’ve made your point” he pouted over the brim of his mug, “And I’ll have you know it was ‘Doctor’s Discretion’.”

Crowley laughed loud and lovely, “Why am I not surprised?”

Aziraphale hid his grin by taking a sip of his slightly too-hot tea, “Mmm, excellent tea, darling. Not to impose, but do you happen to have a biscuit or two?”

“Ah, dammit, I knew I’d forgotten something,” Crowley cursed, “I might not have biscuits, but I do have all the ingredients to make cake.”

“It’s not an ‘alternative’ cake is it? Not that I doubt your skills, dear boy, but I am still rather annoyed they would set such a task; the vegetables don’t even replace an ingredient! They could at least have an egg-free cake, or a flourless cake.”

“Well, I mean I was going to practice my courgette cake, but I have all the ingredients to make you something normal if you want?”

“Oh, no, I shan’t keep you from practising darling,” Aziraphale waved away the offer, “I’ll happily make it myself in lieu of the flapjacks.”

“Don’t talk to me about flapjack, Angel,” Crowley grimaced as he stood, grabbing the milk and sugar and setting down his half-finished tea, “I’ve never liked the stuff. It’s like a shit undercooked porridge. And then with mashed up banana instead of syrup? Fomenting madness, that is.”

Aziraphale followed him to the kitchen, mug cradled in his hands, “Really, Crowley, flapjack is delicious. I do have to question your palette.”

“Coming from the man who enjoys chicken liver pâté,” Crowley retorted as he fished out two mixing bowls from a lower cupboard, “Angel, could you just grab the flour out of there- no, next one- yes, there, just grab anything else you need.”

“I’ll admit that pâté is an acquired taste,” Aziraphale continued, setting down the flour along with oats, dates, and honey, “But flapjack is universal! Even Gabriel and Michael like flapjack and they’ve sworn off sugar since 1996.”

“Your family gets weirder and weirder the more you talk about them,” Crowley said before he opened the fridge to retrieve butter, courgettes, lemons, and eggs, balancing them in his arms and closing the door with his elbow.

“They are a bit odd,” Aziraphale conceded, “You know, Gabriel came over the other month to talk about some nonsense or other, and he picked up my first edition _Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management_ , flicked through it, and then asked me if it was pornography. I rather suspect he was reading the chapter on breastfeeding, and the sight of the word ‘bosom’ sent him into a tizzy.”

Crowley snorted, “The poor sheltered boy.”

“I know,” Aziraphale grinned, grabbing one of the bowls from behind Crowley, “If he’d explored the next shelf over he’d have found the _real_ pornography,” he delighted in Crowley’s laugh as he began to weigh out some of his ingredients off by heart, then he frowned and paused, “Oh, I am an old silly, all this talk of flapjack has me all fuddled – I’ve gotten the oats out,” Aziraphale sighed, “Oh well, I do fancy some now, even if they have dates in.”

“Well, I guess I can allow flapjacks in my kitchen just this once, Angel.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

By the end of the day they were laden with two batches of syrup free flapjack, one with banana and the other with dates, and three vegetable cakes, one with beetroot, one with courgette, and one carrot cake that Aziraphale had been craving all week. None of them were bad, especially not the carrot, just not the usual decadence that Crowley enjoyed watching Aziraphale enjoy; they certainly had the illusion of healthiness, anyway, despite the amount of sugar and butter still in them.

* * *

While Crowley did love to drive, the recent spontaneity of their visits meant that he didn’t know if he would be expecting to park the car in Soho or be too drunk to drive back anyway, so he kept the Bentley in his apartment complex’s very secure garage. Still, he couldn’t complain too much when he got to drive it extensively on the weekend, and when he got to have more time with Aziraphale because of it.

Today though was a day that he regretted his newfound driving schedule. It had started out raining heavily but had let up enough for him to take the short walk to the bookshop without getting soaked. The same could not be said for his shoes, which had kicked up enough water to soak his socks, so it was with slightly squelching feel that he mounted the bookshop stairs.

He entered the shop with only a perfunctory knock, “Angel? You really picked an interesting day for a walk.”

“Coming, dear!” Aziraphale called, then appeared from behind a bookshelf, giving Crowley a happy grin, “Hello, darling.”

“You alright?” Crowley asked, lounging against a side table.

Aziraphale went to answer, but then noticed the state of his feet and fretted, “Oh my! Look at your poor shoes!” Aziraphale fussed, “That’s bound to damage the leather.”

“Occupational hazard of living in notoriously damp country, Angel,” Crowley said, pointing his toe up and inspecting the wet leather with a frown, “It’ll dry eventually anyway.”

“It is a bit damp,” Aziraphale conceded, peering out the shop window, “But still a lovely day otherwise. And the rain is supposed to have stopped until tonight.”

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t still a ton of puddles out there,” Crowley said, joining him by the window. He leaned around him to look out onto the street and tried not to think about how they were touching, “Might be nice to stay in, you know, stay warm.”

“That would be lovely, dearest. But perhaps we could go out now, and then spend the evening warming back up with a cup of cocoa and some Schubert,” Aziraphale said wistfully, pulling away from the window to face his friend.

“Alright, alright, you’ve convinced me” Crowley smiled, “But, only on the condition we go back to my place, have our cocoa, and watch the new series of the Sewing Bee.”

“Oh! Is that on today? Oh, Crowley, of course, yes, Schubert will just have to wait.”

Aziraphale swapped his cardigan for his usual coat, and slipped into his second best pair of shoes, conscious of the rain still pooled on the ground. Soon enough they were taking the short walk to St James’ Park, down past Piccadilly Circus and avoiding Trafalgar Square. Even with the rain there were a fair few people about, some tourists taking photos of the ducks, some locals strolling with their family and friends. Aziraphale sighed wistfully at the love in the air and leaned closer so his arm brushed with Crowley’s with each step.

They rounded the other side of the lake and were just about to watch the ducks when the deluge started again, and Aziraphale gasped before bustling them both under the partial cover of a large tree. The ducks quacked happily, and one particularly adventurous mallard was enjoying splashing in a puddle on the deserted path.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry dear, I quite thought the rain would hold off for the afternoon,” Aziraphale said, curls beginning to dampen even with the shelter of the tree.

Crowley was faring a little worse, his usually highly styled hair flat and sticking to his forehead, “Not your fault, Angel. You can never trust the forecast.”

“But they do try ever so hard to predict it, darling,” he said, tugging his coat closed and frowning at the droplets on his shoulders, “I can forgive them a margin of a few hours, even if it’s ruined a perfectly lovely afternoon.”

“I’d hardly say ruined, Angel,” he said, stepping a little closer to avoid a bare patch of leaves dripping on him, “We had a nice walk while it lasted.”

“Yes, but my coat is really not meant to get so wet,” Aziraphale frowned worriedly.

Crowley shuffled close and dared to wrap his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, “Hopefully that should keep it protected at bit.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, and up close it was even more startlingly beautiful. Then, without much warning, he pecked a chaste kiss to Crowley’s cheek, “Thank you, Anthony,” he said, derailing all of Crowley’s higher brain functions. Aziraphale turned away with flushed cheeks, and it was a charged silence for a beat before Aziraphale giggled nervously, “Oh, I was about to say something terribly tacky.”

“Ngk, I- no, uh, go on. I don’t mind tacky.”

“If you’re sure,” he teased, “I was going to say, ‘you’re like my knight in shining armour’,” he laughed again, “Well, it would be in black armour really.”

Crowley collected himself enough to groan and maybe, just maybe, pull Aziraphale a little closer, “I take it back. That was awful.”

“I shall recite some poetry for you instead, then.”

“Yeah? Impress me then, Angel,” Crowley encouraged.

Aziraphale cleared his throat and assumed what Crowley could only guess was his reciting pose, “ _And the knights in that castle shouted with pleasure,_

 _Proud to stand in his presence -_ Crowley _,_

_Eternally praised, bearer of excellence,_

_Most able, most knightly, best on earth,_

_Most famous, most honoured of men. And each of them_

_Whispered to his fellow: 'How sweet it will be_

_To see such easy, virtuous skill!_ ’”

Crowley pulled his arm away momentarily to clap delightedly, then set it right back where it belonged, “Excellent, Angel! What’s that from?”

“Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” he said proudly, “Though in this case it was Sir Crowley.”

“Well, rightly so, I think it captured my valour perfectly,” Crowley preened.

“I could recite it in the original form, too,” Aziraphale said, clearly in his element, “ _And alle þe men in þat mote maden much joye, to apere in his presense pretly þat tyme-”_

“How can you even remember that, Angel?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, I studied it extensively when I was learning Middle English,” he said, “It really is marvellous, and very influential on many modern day fantasy texts. You know, I actually was allowed to see the original text once,” he gazed off into the distance dreamily, “Oh, Crowley, it was beautiful. Six hundred years old and the colour of the illustrations are still so vibrant, so fresh! It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Crowley silently thought how the loveliest thing he had ever seen was standing right before him, damp curls, and rain-red cheeks, and expressive eyes shiny as he talked about the things he loved.

A little while later the roar of the downpour quietened, and the sky cleared of the thick black rainclouds.

“I do believe it’s easing off,” Aziraphale noted almost forlornly.

“Ah, seems so,” Crowley said, but didn’t move.

“We should probably leave now, while it’s still a drizzle,” Aziraphale added. Still no-one moved, reluctant to break their little moment of peace.

“Perhaps,” Crowley cleared his throat, “Perhaps it’d be best if I kept my arm here. You know, just in case it picks up again while we’re walking. That is, if you want.”

“No, no, I quite agree. You’ve already kept my coat dry this long; I wouldn’t want to let your efforts go to waste.”

“Yeah, exactly my thinking, that.”

“Jolly good.”

“Great.”

A pause.

“Ah, shall we then?” Aziraphale smiled at him, and they cautiously stepped out from beneath the tree and back onto the path.

“Hey, Angel, do you fancy picking up some takeaway? Sushi, maybe?”

“Oh, yes! Crowley you do spoil me,” he wiggled delightedly, “How about we watch one of those spy films you like so much after our show, darling?”

“Really? You’re serious?” Crowley enthused, squeezing Aziraphale closer, “Yes! You are in for a treat, Angel. Now, we could go serious with the newer ones, but I do have a bit of a soft spot for Moonraker.”

“Anything you like, dearest,” Aziraphale sighed happily.

The sun was just setting and the air cool with rain as they strolled past couples and dogwalkers and families, lingering sweet scent of flowers around them as each step splashed tiny puddles. And all the while Crowley held Aziraphale close, only stopping when they reached the sushi restaurant, where instead he placed a daring hand low on Aziraphale’s back.

They got home only a little late for the Sewing Bee and enjoyed bickering about their differences in clothing taste as they, mostly Aziraphale, gorged themselves on Sashimi and Nigiri. In the end they did watch Moonraker, and if Aziraphale fell asleep halfway through Crowley could hardly complain when he was cuddling into him and snoring into his shoulder. He was still asleep at the end of the film, and while it was tempting to snuggle up to him and stay there the rest of the night, he knew they’d both be sore by the morning.

Gently nudging Aziraphale, he whispered, “Angel, come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“Muh,” Aziraphale mumbled, face scrunching adorably, “Wha? Crowley?”

“Yes, it’s just me, Angel,” he cooed, utterly charmed by his sleepy state, “It’s late, Aziraphale, you’ll get a crick if you sleep here.”

“Oh, hmm,” he yawned, “I’m terribly sorry dear,” he heaved himself up and into Crowley’s arms, “Oh, and I missed your film too!”

“S’okay, Angel, I don’t mind,” Crowley said, walking with him to the bedroom, then slipping past to pull what had become Aziraphale’s pyjamas from their drawer, “Here you are! I’ll be back in a minute; bathroom.”

By the time he returned, Aziraphale was curled up in bed, blinking blearily.

“Thought you’d be asleep by now, Angel, tired as you were,” Crowley said softly, slipping in beside him and twining their legs together.

“Wanted to wait for you,” Aziraphale said sleepily, nuzzling closer, and closing his eyes.

Crowley just looked at him, his relaxed face a now familiar sight, having shared a bed almost every night since that first time. It was still as magic as it had been then, still had his heart racing and breath hitching, perhaps even more so now. He could only think of their carefree day, and the way Aziraphale had kissed his cheek and called him Anthony in a way no-one had before, soft and caring and so gentle. He didn’t know what they were to each other right now, but with each day and each smile his hope grew stronger and stronger into something palpable.

With all the courage from their day spent together Crowley closed the small gap between them to kiss Aziraphale on the forehead, “Night, Angel.”

Aziraphale sighed happily, “Goodnight, my dear boy.”

* * *

They had a lovely Friday morning together, with a shared breakfast and lunch, and then an even nicer drive down to the hotel. Not wanting to spend all evening in the rather limited hotel bar, the pair had taken a drive up to a local tropical garden, with Crowley excitedly admiring the emerald tree boas and the array of orchids, and Aziraphale admiring his friend’s joyful face. After their rather heavy lunch, they settled for a light dinner at the café of tea and sandwiches, and Crowley proved that he could do puppy-dog eyes almost as well as Aziraphale when he begged him to look around the gift shop. Crowley had grinned the whole way back to the car, spinning his keys with their new snake keyring around on his finger.

They’d spent so much time together the past few days that when they made it to the tent on Saturday morning they were both a bit miffed to find that Crowley was right at the back and Aziraphale right at the front. Baking wasn’t as much fun if they couldn’t tease each other. Crowley sent Aziraphale an exaggerated pout as he sauntered over to his station, which was met with a fond smile and rolled eyes. He took a few moments to set everything up to his liking, and to check that his oven was working, even if they insisted they bake a Victoria sponge in each oven every morning.

There was a slightly longer wait than normal, one of the presenters apparently having microphone issues, and Crowley resorted to awkward small talk with Marie at the bench in front while Shadwell butted in with bizarre comments from the station next to him. Shadwell was in the middle of a tirade about the Salem Witch Trials and sounding strangely nostalgic about them when the producers thankfully stepped in and called everyone to their starting places.

It was the shortest time they’d been given so far, just an hour and a half to make twenty-four identical syrup-free flapjacks, and Crowley reluctantly set to work, mashing his banana with a fork before mixing it into a paste with the coconut oil, vanilla extract, and bicarb. He wrinkled his nose at the unappealing look, but continued, combining the paste well with the oats. It was a simple recipe that took very little time to cook, but Crowley knew that this week was more about choosing the right technique and flavour than anything else. He was just glad to get it out of the way.

The only step he really had left was the topping, just a simple dark chocolate layer he wanted to temper to make shiny and perfect. He set up a bain-marie on the hob, tossing in some chopped chocolate chunks and melting it slowly to just over fifty-five degrees before taking it off the heat.

Needing it to cool a little anyway, he set the bowl aside while he checked on his flapjacks, quickly taking them from the oven when he saw they were a little more golden than he’d have liked. The texture seemed fine though, so he turned off the oven and left it to cool.

In the meantime, he stirred in the remaining solid chocolate into the melted portion, watching as it melted nicely. Continuing to cool it to the high twenties, he then heated it a few more degrees until it was the right consistency, and poured it directly into the flapjack tray, about half a centimetre thick.

It had taken him less than an hour, and now all he had to do was wait for the chocolate to set so he could measure out the squares.

He looked about the tent and saw most of the bakers were in a similar position, just waiting for their icing or drizzle or chocolate to set. Aziraphale though was already sliding his flapjacks onto the slate plate they’d provided, and Crowley remembered him insisting that having a chocolate topping on a syrup-free flapjack was madness, and shook his head fondly.

Even the cameramen must have realised there was very little to film, and some set down their cameras for a bit. Crowley took the lull as an opportunity to go over to Aziraphale’s station, laughing fondly as he noted Aziraphale had a plate of spare flapjacks in front of him and was nibbling at one.

“Peckish, Angel?”

“Oh, you wily thing, you caught me,” Aziraphale brushed crumbs off his apron, “I simply couldn’t resist them.”

“Do you even need the judge’s opinion? You liking something is a ringing endorsement in my book,” Crowley said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the bench.

“Well, sometimes one needs an outside opinion.”

“Hmm, I suppose my opinion doesn’t count then?”

“It would if you would deign to taste them, my dear,” Aziraphale remarked.

“I haven’t even tasted my own, Angel,” Crowley said, but reached out a hand anyway and popped a piece in his mouth. He took his time to chew and taste the flapjack, tilting his head in a show of pensiveness.

“Oh darling,” Aziraphale gushed, “You really didn’t have to.”

Crowley shook off the praise, “Eh, they’re not bad, Angel. For a flapjack anyway.”

Aziraphale saw the comment for the approval it was, “Darling, you really are a sweetheart.”

“Oi!” Crowley grumbled, but he was smiling too, “That’s slander, that is.”

There was a crash behind them, and they turned to watch the presenters doing a bit for the camera before they turned to call out to the bakers, “Bakers you have ten minutes!”

Crowley pushed himself off the bench, “I should probably go cut my flapjacks. Might have to get the set square out.”

“You really brought a set square?”

“’Course I did; I want those perfect ninety degree angles,” he said, making an angle with his hands to illustrate his plans.

Aziraphale twisted the ring on his pinky finger, looking back at his own bake, “You don’t think mine are too messy, do you?”

Truthfully they weren’t the neatest thing ever seen, some were bigger than others, and they had a slight mis-angle, but all in all they looked delicious, homemade and comforting just like Aziraphale. That and they really were the only flapjacks Crowley had ever liked.

“Na, you’re good, Angel. I only need mine to look perfect because I’m pretty sure they taste terrible.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, dear,”

“Hmm, well tell me that after you’ve tried one,” Crowley said good-naturedly, and made his way back to his bench.

It turned out they _didn’t_ taste terrible, just sort of bland with the dark chocolate masking any potential banana flavour. The judges seemed to like them well enough though compared to some of the other bakers, Gwen’s peanut butter flapjacks apparently just like someone had stirred uncooked oats into a puddle of peanut butter, and Shadwell seemed to think he the combination of mashed up blueberries and strawberries without any binding agent would hold the oats together. Aziraphale’s were definitely the best of them, the presenters sneaking off with a few spare flapjacks while the judges praised their texture.

* * *

Their technical was gluten-free pitta breads, which was something none of them suspected. Gwen had thought a no-yeast dough, William a gelatine-free jelly, and Adam and Warlock had hoped it would be dairy-free ice cream. Crowley hadn’t given too much thought to any of them, but Aziraphale had cycled through almost every alternative recipe possible without baking any of them.

The only person who seemed unperturbed was Shadwell.

Crowley was sure this portion of the episode would make good television, since everyone had the same expression of incomprehension at the words ‘psyllium powder’ at the top of the recipe. The cameramen were getting all sorts of angles of their anguish, recording more than one person frantically stirring the powder and water together while looking around furtively, and saying “I literally have no idea how this is supposed to look.”

One by one each baker’s mixing slowed, and they lowered their heads to the jug and sniffed.

“Is it supposed to smell like that?” Marie gagged, “It smells awful.”

“It’s foul,” William grimaced from his bench, “How is anyone going to want to eat this?”

Crowley could see Aziraphale leaning as far back as he could from the jug while still being able to stir; he could just picture the look on his face and chortled to himself.

As instructed, they all set the mixture aside for now and got to work on mixing the more standard ingredients, before reluctantly pouring in the disgusting smelling liquid psyllium.

The dough slopped out of the bowl like sludge. With a longsuffering sigh, Crowley began to work the very wet dough, the bulk of it just sticking to the bench and his fingers. Undeterred he kneaded it as much as possible, until it at least faintly resembled a dough; at least it didn’t smell quite as bad now. He took a quick look around and Gwen seemed to be in a tough spot, dough in her hair and all down her apron, and mix looking more like a mousse than bread.

“Can you knead a liquid?” she joked to the presenter, who was frowning down at the dough, and simply patted on her the back in sympathy.

Soon bakes were being put in the proving drawer, and timers being set for a range of different durations based on arbitrary gut feelings. Crowley set his for an hour, a little shorter than he might if he wasn’t on a deadline, but hopefully the heat of the day would help it double in size faster. It was a boring wait, the rules of the technical still in place even with the long proving times. He could see Aziraphale at his bench engrossed with his latest novel, either unaware or ignoring the cameraman filming him. Crowley watched him as he washed up, then sat at his down bench with his chin resting on his hand as he waited for his timer to go off.

After the bakers timers began to beep in succession, Crowley pulled his dough from the proving draw and cut it relatively easily with his pastry scraper, though it was still sticky and weird to work with. He weighed out each portion as best as he could, and when satisfied he set to work shaping them into flat ovals. His shaping wasn’t as even as he’d like it to be, but if he wanted them baked he’d have to get the first batch of three in regardless. There were no times on the recipe as usual, so Crowley settled on a maximum of fifteen minutes, but resolved to keep an eye on them.

A lot of the bakers were kneeling on the floor peering through the glass, but even if he wanted to Crowley’s jeans were the kind that were way too tight to bend more than normal sitting down. Even then it was a stretch. He settled back on his stool instead, tilting down as far as he could to get half and angle of the pittas puffing up a bit. He dithered over whether he should flip them over, but in the end decided not to, in case they lost the little pocket inside with the agitation.

Even after the twenty minutes they still looked grey and chalk-like, but the texture felt like they were done. There were only thirty minutes left though, so he amended his baking time down to fifteen minutes and hoped it would be enough. He had little choice but to put two trays in at the same time, even if the bakes on them might be a little uneven; he doubted they would be winners even if he did bake them all separately. He rested the first three under the tea towel they were given and resumed his oven-watching spot. He ended up with just a minute to spare and tried to artfully arrange the grey blobs on the wooden boards.

When time was called he let out a relieved sigh, thankful he could go on to bake something more exciting tomorrow, even if it was just a vegetable cake.

He joined Aziraphale outside the tent while they were cleaning the benches for the day’s final judgement.

“That was something,” Crowley said, rubbing a hand over his face, “Thank God it’s over.”

“I do appreciate that there are people who require gluten-free products, but I’m afraid I am not the biggest fan of the process of making them,” Aziraphale said magnanimously.

“I have to agree there. I looked up psyllium powder and apparently it’s prescribed as a laxative.”

Aziraphale winced, “I’d rather not have known that, darling. Perhaps I shan’t be trying any of them after all, even if they do have hummus.”

“It’s the judges I’m worried about,” Crowley grinned, “They’re the ones who have to try eight each.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale giggled, “And I saw William actually try a spoonful of the raw mix.”

Crowley snorted, “I know who to stay away from at the bar tonight.”

They were soon called back into the tent, everyone smiling embarrassedly at the array of rather sorry looking pitta breads. 

The judges didn’t seem impressed either.

“Right,” the bread expert began pointedly, “What we’re looking for is twelve baked pittas, nice and thin, with an envelope inside.”

Crowley’s were baked but a little too thick, Aziraphale’s nice and thin but a little under baked. The others were of a similar calibre, but Gwen’s were a definite last even before the official judging, the wrong shape, underdone, and far too thick.

Crowley was happy enough to have come fifth, with Aziraphale getting an unexpectedly good third place. The real shocker came with the winner, however.

“And number one is this one,” the judge announced, pointing to the perfect set, “Well done Shadwell.”

Everyone looked rather stunned at the outcome as they applauded dumbly; Shadwell wasn’t a bad baker per se, but he had always been middling on every other bake and kept scraping through.

“Have you baked these before?” the other judge asked.

“No,” Shadwell said simply.

There was an awkward pause they’d probably edit out later.

“Ah, but have you baked gluten free before?” they tried.

“O’course,” Shadwell growled, “Gluten is the work a’the devil.”

Not knowing him well enough to know it wasn’t a joke, most of the bakers laughed.

* * *

They had stayed in the bar a little while to at least try and be sociable with the other contestants, but after spending the day baking it was rather exhausting that all they seemed to be talking about was the Bake Off. It wasn’t long before they retired back to Aziraphale’s room again, Crowley throwing himself down on the squishy sofa and Aziraphale topping up both their glasses of wine before sitting primly down next to him.

“Ah, that’s better,” Crowley groaned, “They’re a nice bunch but, God, they’re excruciatingly chatty.”

“Mm, I do have to agree, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, “They have so many different hobbies and passions between them you’d think that they find something to talk about other than cake.”

“Exactly,” Crowley said, almost spilling his wine as he moved his hands, “We should propose an embargo on it next week. In fact, I propose one right now! First one of us to say cake has to... uh...”

“Pay for dinner tomorrow?”

“Perfect,” Crowley grinned, reaching over to clink their wine glasses together, “And to the winner’s place of choice too.”

Crowley quietly didn’t mention that if he won he would probably take them to somewhere Aziraphale liked anyway.

“Oh blast,” Aziraphale said after a moment, “Now I can hardly think of anything else to say!”

Crowley sipped his wine and decided to help him out a bit, “Well, tell me about your latest book then, Angel. Don’t think I didn’t see you reading it earlier.”

Aziraphale perked up immediately, “Oh, it’s one of my absolute favourites! It’s called ‘House on the Strand’ by Daphne Du Maurier-“

“She’s the ‘Rebecca’ woman, right?”

“Exactly, my dear boy,” he looked inordinately pleased, “I do enjoy Rebecca too of course, it’s opening is simple iconic – _Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again_ – and the same Maximillian De Winter is simply marvellous and, oh, Mrs Danvers!”

Crowley grinned at his enthusiasm, “So what’s this ‘House on the Strand’ then?”

“Well, I shan’t spoil too much of it for you, but its about a young man who agrees to test a drug that his old university friend – who by the way is very obviously in love with him – has been developing. Very early on we discover that the drug allows him to see the local area as it was in the 14th century, where he can see the lives of those who lived there in the past but can’t interact in any way.”

“Huh, sounds... interesting.”

“Oh, it’s so hard to explain, you simply have to read it, darling! There’s so much more, oh! Yes, I forgot, when he’s on the drug he can walk around in the past, but in the present he is walking around the same area in a dreamlike state. He grows increasingly addicted to the world, and tries to hide everything from his new wife, Vita. Which is a splendid metaphor for growing distant from life! Like all of her novels it’s so well written.”

“Ok, that actually does sound intriguing,” Crowley admitted, then asked, “How does it end?”

“Crowley! I can’t possibly say!” he frowned.

“C’mon it’s not like I’m going to read it.”

“But if it was a story that could be told in so few words it wouldn’t be a book.”

“I guess,” Crowley conceded, “But surely if I knew the end I’d want to read it to find out how that came about.”

“You wily serpent, that’s not how anticipation works!”

Crowley titled his head and looked over at him, “Why serpent?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, “What?”

“Why serpent and not snake?”

“Oh! I- I’m not quite sure actually. Snake is so harsh, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Well, of course! ‘You snake’!” he shuddered, “That sounds rather offensive.”

“And serpent doesn’t?” Crowley teased, setting down his wine glass.

“I rather think not. Serpent has a nicer ring to it, softer. It’s probably the ‘sn’ from snake is too much like sneer and the ‘ser’ is a much less hard pronunciation. It suits you much better.”

“Are you saying I’m nice?” Crowley preened behind a pout.

“Of course I am, darling,” Aziraphale said in adulation, “You are the nicest, kindest most darling thing.”

Crowley grumbled, “I am not! I’m intimidating. I even have a face tattoo,” he tried his best to furrow his brow and purse his lips crossly, but only serving to look dashing.

Aziraphale laughed, “You certainly try to be, dear boy. But I must say I find your tattoo rather sweet,” he admitted, “Truthfully it’s why I first thought of you as serpent; well that and your walk.”

“Yeah?” Crowley teased, intimidation attempt turning to a lopsided grin, “What about my walk?”

Aziraphale blushed, “Ah, well... you do have a rather unique go of it, what with your hips and the way they, ahem- well. Move.”

“You were staring at my hips?”

“Not exclusively!” he protested, “It was more of a... general observation.”

“Huh,” Crowley grinned and, feeling a little emboldened by the wine, said, “Guess we both have that in common.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale cocked his head.

“I, uh, actually already called you Angel in my head, before the sugar thing with Eve,” he confessed, “I mean, can you blame me? I took one look at you and thought my bad driving had finally caught up with me.”

“There’s really no need to go overboard on the flattery,” Aziraphale flustered.

“Overboard?” Crowley scoffed, tongue loosened by the wine and unravelling more by the second, “Aziraphale, I’ve barely scratched the surface! Fuck, you’re gorgeous, Angel.”

“You can’t really mean that,” Aziraphale breathed out, and he was even prettier now, flushed red and all smiley and fluttering eyelashes.

“Of course I do!” Crowley urged, “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I... I thought you were, oh, I don’t know, teasing me. With the name. Not- not that it was a term of endearment,” Aziraphale said in awe, but he was clearly pleased at the revelation rather than angered by it.

Crowley sat up from his slouch and took Aziraphale’s hand gently in his, “It was. It is, Angel. Teasing? I- you drive me crazy! With your smile and your hair, and, Christ, your arse. And you’re- you’re kind and funny and wonderful and a right bastard sometimes. Perfect really. S’what you are,” he petered off, the reality of what he’d just admitted catching up with him.

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, then before Crowley could process what was happening their lips were touching, and he’d opened his mouth to get more, more of the taste of his Angel, that probing tongue stirring everything up inside of him, hands gripping at whatever loveliness he could reach. He whined when Aziraphale stopped the kiss, chasing him, but he pressed a soft finger to his lips to still him, looking him deep in his eyes with such tenderness he almost stopped breathing.

“Darling,” Aziraphale stroked his cheek, darting to press another sweet kiss to his mouth, “Oh, I had hoped you’d want this too, but I never dared-“

He kissed him again without finishing the thought, and they kissed some more, and more, and more until they were pressed close together, Aziraphale spread across Crowley’s lap and hands clutching at his shirt. Crowley had been tipsy before, yes, but now he felt drunk, felt dizzy and giddy and on top of the world, every touch a treasure.

There wasn’t enough space on the sofa to lay Aziraphale down like he wanted to, and instead Crowley took hold of his hips and pushed him to stand, never breaking their kiss as he edged them back towards the bed. No sooner had Aziraphale sat down on the bed than Crowley was straddling him, pressing him back onto the soft bedspread.

His breath tasted fruity and syrupy and all too much like the wine they’d been sharing, and it was with a sobering shock Crowley broke them apart.

“Aziraphale, wait,” he groaned, “We’re drunk, we shouldn’t.”

Aziraphale smoothed his hands down Crowley’s sides, “Only a little, darling, only enough to be a little bit brave.”

“But you still- it’s still not- how do you know you won’t-“

Aziraphale cupped his face next, kissing him sweetly, “Crowley, I know what I’m doing. I know I want this with you. That won’t change,” he pressed their lips together again, “What about you? How do you feel?”

“Tipsy,” he acknowledged, “Buzzed.”

“But...?”

“But I know I want this too, I’ve always wanted this,” Crowley buried his face into the soft crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh darling, me too,” the blonde smiled fondly.

They stayed cuddled together for a while, both longing to feel each other but scared of making the next move. It was Aziraphale who initiated it, slipping his hands from Crowley’s hips up under his shirt to feel the searing hot skin against his palm. Crowley followed, pressing light kisses on Aziraphale’s neck and working his way up to press their lips together again as his hands made to unbutton his waistcoat.

“Ah, let me, dearest,” Aziraphale said breathily, “I’m afraid they’re rather fiddly.”

“Ngk, yeah, ok” Crowley said, pulling his own shirt off over his head, and raptly watching as Aziraphale hastily worked on his buttons. Each movement revealed more and more skin, soft and gloriously tempting, and soon Crowley was helping him to pull the clothes off his arms and dropping them to the ground.

Aziraphale cupped his face and dragged him down into a thorough snog before he could get his fill of looking, but he could hardly find it in him to complain about it, especially with the way Aziraphale’s hands were caressing his back. Crowley dragged his hands down Aziraphale’s chest, teasing at his nipples and Aziraphale’s breath sped up to quiet panting moans, rolling his hips up.

After a good few minutes of holding each other close and touching each other, Crowley’s hand dipped beneath Aziraphale’s waistband as he asked, “Is this alright?”

Aziraphale nodded, and then keened as Crowley’s hand wrapped around his cock, but the angle wasn’t the best with his hand restricted by his underwear, so he drew Crowley’s hand away. Crowley quickly realised his intention and sat back to watch him remove the last of his clothes, leaning over to help him shuck the underwear from around his ankles and cheekily throwing them across the room.

“Really, Crowley,” he chastised, and Crowley’s witty reply melted on his tongue at the sight of him splayed out naked against the starched hotel sheets, coy smile on kiss-pink lips and hair even more cloud-like, mussed as it was.

The atmosphere became charged as they locked eyes, Aziraphale’s smile replaced by something sultry and intense that he saw mirrored in Crowley’s own. He truly was lovely, as soft as he’d hoped, and there was so much of him, plump rolls and thick thighs with stretch marks telling of a life well lived that Crowley longed to explore with his tongue. There was more hair on his chest that Crowley expected, but he was all the more beautiful for it, the blonde fuzz spread across his chest and trailing down to a slightly darker patch just above his cock. He was a model worthy of Bernini or Rubens, and if Crowley had a canvas, and wasn’t so aroused, he would paint him himself.

Crowley was suddenly all too aware that he was still wearing his trousers, and he scrambled up off the bed to push them down, cursing his choice of skinny jeans as they got stuck on his left foot and he hobbled around on one foot trying to free it.

Aziraphale was gracious enough to hide his charmed smile behind his hand.

The mood had cooled slightly, but Crowley was still harder than he’d ever been in his life, and quickly returned to the bed where Aziraphale had sat up on his elbows to watch his plight. The blonde cupped his cheek as he drew close and pulled him into a deep kiss that didn’t break even as Crowley shifted from straddling him to pushing him down onto the mattress.

He let his hands wander greedily across Aziraphale’s body, finally getting to touch those lovely hips and feel their cocks pressed together. Aziraphale moaned into his mouth and rolled his hips up, and soon they were frotting against each other single-mindedly as Crowley moved down to his jaw, kissing and mouthing at Aziraphale’s neck in between gasps.

He shifted his hand across to take both of them in hand, but there was too much friction, and as he raised his hand to lick his palm, Aziraphale stopped him.

“Darling,” he said, “There’s lube, in the draw.”

Crowley looked at him blankly, then a wicked smile crossed his face, “You hedonist!”

Aziraphale huffed, “It’s not like you don’t masturbate either.”

“Well, yeah,” Crowley grinned, “But I’m me. You’re a veritable Angel.”

“It’s a perfectly normal thing to do.”

“Mmm,” Crowley kissed his way down his neck, “Normal, and _hot._ Packing lube specifically so you can lay in bed and jerk off. Did you think of it? When we shared a bed?”

“Ah, oh, yes, darling,” Aziraphale moaned, “All those times you left to get changed. The minute you left the room I couldn’t help but touch myself.”

“God, you can’t say things like that,” Crowley groaned, then, patience waning, he reached over to rifle through the draw and grabbed the half-full bottle of lube, “But I was the same, mmm, _yes,_ all those times I left... wanked myself stupid thinking of you.”

“Crowley, you’re positively filthy,” Aziraphale said delightedly as Crowley slicked his palm and returned his hand to stroke their cocks. Aziraphale’s hand followed suit, stroking them in tandem as they ground into the circle of their hands.

The bed was far too creaky, but Crowley drowned out any sound other than the quiet moans coming from Aziraphale, the hot panting breath on him as he mouthed at his jaw. Aziraphale’s hand was soft even as it curled tightly around Crowley’s own, his nails pinching slightly as their hands moved and they rocked in tandem. Crowley twisted his wrist just so, and Aziraphale groaned the loudest yet, spreading his legs wider and Crowley sank more between them, closer still. Aziraphale was gripping his hair tight too, mussing the short tresses just on the right side of pulling, and Crowley whined lowly into his ear, whispering out a laboured, “Fuck, Angel,” and kissing him hard.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, tilting his head suddenly eager to see his lover’s eyes.

Keeping their eyes locked, Crowley moved both their hands away from their cocks, slipping their fingers together instead, joined hands trapped between their chests. He rolled his hips faster, eliciting another lovely sound from Aziraphale, who bucked his hips up in return. They stayed that way for a long while, rutting against one another and exchanging a mix of gentle and passionate kisses, Aziraphale unclasping their hands only to clutch at his arse and pull him closer. Crowley used the hand not holding him up to brush back Aziraphale’s hair and then cupped his face, thumb stroking across his cheek. 

“Aziraphale,” he panted, tensing as he felt himself getting close, “Gonna, ngk, gonna come, Angel.”

“Yes, darling,” Aziraphale encouraged, slipping his hand lower and pressing explorative fingers just against his hole.

Crowley whined lowly, torn between pushing back into the touch or pressing his cock harder against Aziraphale’s body. It was a dilemma that didn’t last long; Aziraphale’s ministrations of matching him thrust for thrust and circling his fingers had Crowley coming across both of their stomachs, groaning uncontrollably around syllables that could be his lover’s name.

He lost all semblance of holding his own weight up, head dropping to rest on Aziraphale’s collarbone, chest to chest. Aziraphale hand left Crowley’s arse to stroke down his spine, holding him close and pressing kisses into his hair.

Aziraphale hadn’t yet finished though, and Crowley could feel him still hard against his thigh. Once he collected himself, breath less strained and orgasmic haze faded to a pleasant buzz, Crowley carefully sat up, reaching over to use a corner of the duvet to hastily wipe away his own come.

“Really, darling,” Aziraphale chastised half-heartedly, still flushed red down his chest, “You could have gotten a tissue.”

“Too much effort,” Crowley laid back down over him and hovered over his lips, “How could I possibly drag myself away from this?”

Aziraphale nudged their noses together sweetly, then, unable to resist, pressed up to kiss him properly, fingers drawing patterns on the skin of Crowley’s hips.

Still conscious of Aziraphale’s pressing need, Crowley broke away to work his way down his perfect chest, kissing and nipping to where his cock lay hot and hard.

“Angel,” Crowley said, cheek resting against his stomach and eyes peering up at Aziraphale, “Can I suck you off?”

“Yes, darling,” Aziraphale moaned quietly, but sure, “Please, yes.”

Crowley wasted no time, extending his path of kiss down to the head of his cock, and then down the shaft. He flicked his tongue out here and there, teasing, before mouthing at his balls while Aziraphale gasped above him, hands back in Crowley’s hair. After one more pass of kisses along the shaft, he slipped the head into his mouth, tonguing the sensitive slit and then sucking more of him down. He was overeager at first, choking once or twice, which Aziraphale soothed by stroking the corner of his mouth when he pulled away. Determined, Crowley sank back down, this time careful of his gag reflex, and held Aziraphale’s hips still from where they were jerking up involuntarily.

Soon though the thrusting became even more unrestrained, Aziraphale whimpering out, “Crowley, ah, darling, I’m so,” a groan, “I’m so close.”

Not usually one to swallow, Crowley kept his mouth on his cock until he felt Aziraphale shake and pull on his hair in warning, and quickly pulled off to let Aziraphale shoot over his stomach.

Crowley watched him fondly as he caught his breath, eyes closed and lips curled in a pleased smile.

Aziraphale hummed just like he did when he ate something particularly delicious, then blinked open his eyes and stretched out his hand blindly to grab the duvet and used it to clean himself off.

“Hypocrite,” Crowley laughed, helping him clean up and then flopped down by his side.

“Well, you already dirtied it, dear,” Aziraphale said sleepily, tucking Crowley’s head under his chin.

“Hmmm,” Crowley intoned, feeling so safe and warm and drowsy from their lovely night that he was soon fast asleep in Aziraphale’s arms.

* * *

Crowley was not a fan of the five am wake-up. It wasn’t enforced, per say, but if you weren’t on the minibus by seven with make-up and hair done you’d get a strongly worded note from the production team. And the knowledge you delayed about three dozen people in filming.

He was lamenting that early wakeup call again, eyes bleary and head aching from lack of sleep and then the realisation that he _slept with Aziraphale last night_ washed over him. He remembered it vividly, every excruciatingly wonderful second of it, his confession, that kiss, the slow unravelling of Aziraphale, inch after inch of that perfect body revealed to him. He could still taste him on his lips, the flavour of his mouth and the lovely feel of his cock.

Perhaps this morning it wouldn’t be so terrible to wake up so early.

Crowley grinned to himself, something warm filling his chest as he rolled over and-

The bed was empty. The warmth receded, a sense of wrongness coming over him.

“Aziraphale?” he said quietly, voice raspy with sleep.

There was no reply, but he could hear there was someone in the bathroom, the shower starting up.

Ok, right, that’s ok. Aziraphale is always early to things, he’s not just going to lounge around in bed if he has somewhere to be, he thought optimistically. Even if Crowley was there in bed with him.

He sat up gingerly on the edge of the bed, noting his clothes were still strewn about the floor, and reached down to retrieve his boxers for at least some modesty. He picked up and folded the rest of his clothes, setting them on the side table closest to him.

Crowley heard the shower shut off, but it was a long while before Aziraphale emerged, fully dressed and even wearing his shoes. They made eye contact for a moment, but Aziraphale quickly looked away, clearing his throat, “Ahem, the bathroom is free, dear.”

“Aziraphale-“

“You should probably shower now, it’s already late,” he interrupted, puttering about and fiddling with things on the other side of the room from Crowley.

Crowley looked at him for a long while, knowing by the stiffness of his shoulders that Aziraphale could feel his gaze. In the end he conceded, grabbing a hotel towel and retreating to the bathroom with helpless hope that when he returned Aziraphale would at least look at him.

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t know why he was panicking, just that he rather was. On the surface, waking up with Crowley after the night they spent together was the same as all the other times they shared a bed, but in all other ways it was new and exciting and terrifying.

Crowley was beautiful, with his messy hair, and quiet snores, and peaceful sleeping face. And his body, Lord, his body was divine, all long and lithe, sharp and hard where Aziraphale was soft and rounded. Last night it hadn’t mattered, the difference between them, last night all Aziraphale could think was _yes_ and how wonderful it felt to touch and be touched, to kiss Crowley on that clever sweet mouth. But there in the light of day, fully sober and naked beneath the sheets with a sleeping Crowley, he couldn’t stop his mind from whirring.

Would Crowley look at him when he woke up? Would he cast a glance down his bare body? Would his thoughts be of beauty, or would he see all the flaws Aziraphale had tried so hard to accept in himself?

Not wanting to risk it, to risk a look of shame or disgust or pity appearing on Crowley’s perfect face, he had scampered from the bed and into the bathroom with his clothes. It would be best to dress, he thought, and then leave Crowley’s rejection unspoken. They could get over this, even if it would break Aziraphale’s heart to think of the reasons why it didn’t work, they could be friends again.

He was caught off-guard when he came out of the bathroom and saw Crowley was awake and, not ready to have the conversation he needed to, he was unintentionally cruel, curt words making Crowley’s face fall and turn to hurt as he escaped to the bathroom.

It was that look then, the sadness and pain, that snapped Aziraphale out of his anxious headspace. He was being unreasonable, ridiculous. He was putting words into Crowley’s mouth that he had never had even a hint of saying. Wasn’t it Crowley who told him he looked good, back in that restaurant? Wasn’t it Crowley who had told him he liked him as he was? Wasn’t it Crowley who held him so tight last night, who came just from feeling his body against Aziraphale’s own?

No, Crowley wouldn’t say or do any of the things he’d worried about earlier. The man in his imagination expressing disgust may have had Crowley’s face, but it didn’t have his heart, it wasn’t him. It was just Aziraphale’s own anxieties trying to ruin the best thing in his life.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and then another.

He hadn’t had a spiral like this in a long time, not since before his reunion with Gabriel, where for a solid ten minutes he was almost convinced everything his family had said about him was right.

He needed to fix this, to fix the hurt he had started. Crowley would understand, Crowley wouldn’t turn him away.

He took a final fortifying breath, then shucked off his coat and waistcoat, slipped off his shoes and headed to the bathroom.

Aziraphale knocked, two sharp raps, and called, “Crowley? Can I come in?”

There was no sound other than the running water and Aziraphale worried he hadn’t been heard when a quiet, shaky voice replied, “The door’s unlocked.”

Aziraphale turned the handle and stepped into the steamy bathroom, the familiar scent of his own shampoo in the air. Crowley was still in the shower, standing with his back turned to the frosted glass, and suddenly Aziraphale wanted to hold him and never let go.

Mind made up he unbuckled his belt; the sound causing Crowley to turn and look at him.

“Aziraphale? What are you doing?”

“Can I come in?” Aziraphale said again, pushing down his trousers and underwear, stepping out of them as he unbuttoned his shirt enough to pull over his head. He was naked now, standing there not totally unashamedly, but determined to not let his own opinions on his body sabotage what he hoped to build with Crowley.

“Uh... in the shower? I’ll be out in a mi-”

“I mean can I join you, dear?” Aziraphale interrupted.

“Oh! I, uh... if you- um, yeah, if you want. I- yes please.”

He sighed in relief and padded to the glass door, only hesitating a little before he pulled it open. Crowley was stunning, hair slicked back with the water, his face a picture of worry and hope.

Aziraphale took one look at him and sobbed out, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, Angel,” Crowley soothed, “Don’t cry, please don’t cry,” he said, pulling Aziraphale into a hug under the warm spray of the shower.

“Sorry, darling,” he said again, pressing a kiss to the patch of chest against his face and feeling Crowley’s breath hitch, “I’m so sorry about before, I was- I was in my own head, my dearest, and being quite silly to boot.”

“It’s ok, shh, it’s all fine, yeah?” Crowley rocked them gently side to side, “Nothing you feel is silly, Angel.”

“Oh, but it was, darling,” Aziraphale insisted, “I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t want you. I was just- I woke up and you were right there beside me, looking so beautiful, so perfect, and you know me, dear, I just couldn’t help but think you’d regret it, sleeping with someone like me, and I couldn’t bear to hear you say it,” he confessed, stroking his hands down Crowley’s chest.

Crowley spluttered, “Angel, _of course,_ I don’t regret it! How could I not want to sleep with you, or be with you? I’ve been crazy about you since the moment I met you.”

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighed, and pulled him in for a kiss.

“And you’re sure? That you want to be with me?” Crowley asked, taking hold of Aziraphale’s pudgy hips in his palms.

“Of course, darling,” Aziraphale leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to Crowley’s parted lips. The kiss grew deeper and more heated, and soon Aziraphale had pushed him up against the cool tiles of the shower. Aziraphale felt Crowley hardening against his stomach, and his own cock responding too, and he pulled back, pinning Crowley with passionate gaze.

They kept their eyes locked on each other as Aziraphale lowered himself to his knees. He braced his hands on Crowley’s hips, and nuzzled at the crook of his thigh, his breath hot on his cock. Crowley gasped and reached out to fumble the water off, then sank his hands into Aziraphale’s hair with a whimper.

“Fuck, Angel,” Crowley purred as Aziraphale licked and kissed his shaft and he shouted out when he swallowed him down.

Aziraphale was far too good at this, taking him deep in his mouth, and barely even choking as he nestled his nose into Crowley’s pubes. He’d snaked one of his hands down to grip his own hardness, his shoulder shaking as he stroked himself, aroused just at the feel of Crowley in his mouth. He bobbed his head expertly, using his tongue to lap at the head of his cock, and dropping his other hand to tease Crowley’s balls.

Crowley was torn between closing his eyes in pleasure and watching Aziraphale below him, but ultimately chose the latter, wanting to remember every detail about his Angel as he was right now. Aziraphale looked up at him, fluttering his eyelashes as he slipped Crowley’s cock out of his mouth with a lewd pop, and smiled up at him.

“You alright?” Crowley panted, stroking back a damp curl from his forehead.

Aziraphale tilted his head up to kiss Crowley’s palm, “Wonderful, darling.”

He stared into Crowley’s eyes as he took Crowley’s dick back in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and rubbing two eager fingers against his perineum. Already on edge from the desire plain on Aziraphale’s face, the action had him tumbling over, tugging desperately on Aziraphale’s hair and crying out, “Angel!”

Aziraphale didn’t pull away, letting Crowley spend against his tongue and then swallowing his come, keening around his dick as he spilled across the shower tray.

“Holy shit,” Crowley panted, limp against the wall.

Aziraphale collected himself for a moment, then struggled to raise himself from his knees, “Ah, darling, could you help me up?”

“Sorry Angel, here,” he said, reaching down to clasp both his hands and pull him to standing.

He looked at Crowley gratefully, “My knees are not what they used to be, dearest.”

“We’ll just have to stick to the bed next time,” Crowley said, moving to let Aziraphale support himself against the wall.

“Oh, I didn’t say that, darling; I’m sure we can be a little adventurous, but perhaps with a cushion next time.”

Crowley laughed and kissed him until they were both in danger of another round.

“We should get ready, Angel,” Crowley said, nudging his nose, “The bus will be going soon.”

“I’d almost forgotten about that,” he sighed, “I rather think we should finish our shower then.”

“ _My_ shower, you mean.”

“Semantics, darling,” Aziraphale grinned, “But if you’d be amenable, I’d love to wash your hair.”

As if he’d say no to that. Crowley sighed dramatically, “Fine, as long as you don’t get up to any funny business.”

“I’ll try,” Aziraphale simpered, “But Crowley darling, you do have the most marvellous arse.”

Crowley yelped as Aziraphale pinched said arse and sent him a glare that would be fierce if it wasn’t so fond.

Needless to say, they were late to the minibus. Only ten minutes, yes, but still late enough that all eyes were on them as they sheepishly approached across the gravel. As Crowley helped Aziraphale aboard with a chivalrous hand, he was more than sure that everyone knew what they’d been up to this morning. Not that he particularly minded, of course, he was chuffed to bits that Aziraphale wanted to be seen with him, wanted to _be_ with him.

Almost as soon as the door slid shut the bus began rumbling down the driveway, the driver grumbling at being delayed.

Aziraphale sat back in his seat with a happy wiggle, Crowley’s arm warm around shoulders.

* * *

Crowley didn’t know if their separation in the tent was a hindrance or a help, to be honest. On the one hand, if Aziraphale had been close to him he doubted he’d be able to stop himself getting distracted by him even more than usual, but on the other he was now distracted by the Aziraphale in his imagination.

It especially didn’t help that the only time he’d baked his vegetable cake was with Aziraphale, and each stage of the process reminded him of that joyous night in his flat, which never felt like home unless Aziraphale was there.

As he prepared the thyme; the memory of Aziraphale running his fingers over the leaves before he snipped a sprig off on Crowley’s behest.

As he candied the lemons; his sugar burning the first time, and Aziraphale hovering over him on the second try, delighted wiggle as the placed the perfect slices on some parchment.

As he grated the courgette; Crowley cutting his finger on a downward strike after Aziraphale made him laugh too hard to concentrate, and the blonde subsequently fussing over him as he wrapped it in a plaster.

As he mixed the cake batter; Crowley deliberately whirring the mixer on certain words Aziraphale was saying and watching him try to keep a straight face and not show his amusement.

As he slid the cake tin into the oven; Aziraphale having just finished his own bake, and their little good-natured spat about how they were going to cook four sponges and two trays of flapjack, something they’d settled with a series of puppy dog eyes and pouting.

With his four sponges in the oven, he set his timer and rubbed at his eyes, mentally checking off the things he still had to do. The cakes only took a half hour, and he decided he’d get to work on his icing, wanting it to be as cool as possible when he applied it.

He tipped the generous amount of icing sugar into the stand mixer with the butter and mascarpone, finally grating some lemon zest in before mixing. It was smooth and fluffy, and Crowley couldn’t resist swiping a finger through it to taste, humming in appreciation at the burst of creamy lemon flavour.

Taking his finished cakes out of the oven, he set them aside to cool, before pricking them with a skewer and bushing his lemon syrup over. Not wanting to risk them collapsing, he waited for them to cool further before putting them into the fridge. In the meantime he gathered his garnishes, throwing away the lemons slices that weren’t quite up to scratch, and cut the particularly long bits of thyme into pieces.

Cakes now cooled, he carefully stacked each sponge with icing and lemon curd between on his cake turntable, and delicately spread on his crumb coat. After a quick chill in the freezer and with only ten minutes to go, he applied the final layer of icing, smoothing it to perfection with a palette knife. He bent to look at it at all angles and, satisfied, lay the caramelised lemon in a cascading strip across the top, and sprinkled the thyme to finish.

* * *

The break between the showstopper and judging wasn’t typically long, the risk of potentially complex bakes sinking or collapsing too great to have anything more than a cursory clean of the benches and a make-up touch-up.

Still, he had a little time to sidle up to Aziraphale where he was relaxing outside the tent, face tilted up to the sun like a freesia, enjoying the summer sun and the chirping birds. When he spotted Crowley in his periphery he beamed and turned that sunny smile on him.

“Hello dear,” he said, and leaned up on his toes to kiss him, “Did your cake turn out alright?”

“I think so,” Crowley shrugged, placed a hand on his waist, “It’s finished at least. What about you, Angel?”

“Oh yes, I do believe it went well!” Aziraphale said, “But I rather made a mess with the beetroot,” he held up his hands, fingers tinged with red, “Apparently lemon is supposed to work well to remove it, but I didn’t have any at the bench.”

Crowley took one of the raised hands and pressed a kiss to his fingertips, “You should have stopped by my bench, I had a whole bagful. Or just shouted over really, I’d have tossed you one.”

Aziraphale tsked, linking their hands together, “I know you would have, darling, which is precisely why I didn’t. You’d have far too much fun throwing food around the room. I haven’t forgotten those cherries you threw at me the other week.”

“I didn’t throw them _at_ you Angel, you were supposed to catch them!”

“How, pray tell, was I supposed to catch them with my hands full? In my mouth?”

“Well, yes, actually. I did angle them that way.”

“Ah, so that’s the excuse for hitting me in the face?”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest when there was a shout from inside the tent, “Places everyone! Action in two minutes!”

Aziraphale sighed, “I do wish we could have had more time to enjoy such a lovely day.”

Crowley hummed in response, an idea forming in his head as they headed back inside.

* * *

The judges loved the look of his cake, the simple but elegant design of it, and Crowley smiled smugly at the praise. His flavours weren’t bad either, the cake lovely and moist, if a little sweet from the amount of buttercream. Aziraphale’s was even more simple on the decoration front, no icing on the outside of his five-layered creation, just sandwiches together with chocolate buttercream and decorated with melted chocolate and a chocolate curl. They thought it was sweet and decadent, and a true showcase of beetroot’s versatility, all which had Aziraphale beaming all the way back to his bench.

Surprisingly, there were no outright disasters today. Shadwell didn’t continue his success of the technical, but his rather unimaginative carrot cake was passable at least; Gwen redeemed herself a bit with her marrow and pecan cake; Warlock wowed with his parsnip and maple syrup masterpiece. The closest was probably Marie, who forget to squeeze the excess water from her courgettes and ended up with a very wet, but tasty, cake.

As soon as the judging of the showstopper was over and they were free to have their final break, Crowley steered Aziraphale away from the green room with brimming excitement.

“Come on, Angel,” was all Crowley said, before taking him by the hand and tugging him across the grass. Usually these breaks lasted about half an hour while the judges deliberated, so Crowley didn’t feel any guilt in making them both scarce to go explore.

“Crowley, where on Earth are you taking me?” Aziraphale asked bemusedly.

“You’ll see in a minute.”

“Darling, can you slow down just a little?”

“Sorry, Angel,” Crowley smiled apologetically and slowed so they were walking side by side. He was taking them towards the manor but turned away from the front door and instead went through a gate at the side of the house.

“Really, my, dear, are we even allowed back here?”

“Eh, they never said we _weren’t,_ ” Crowley reasoned, “Come on, we’re almost there.”

It was mid-afternoon, the sun still scorching down at them unimpeded by any clouds, and as they rounded the corner into the garden they could see the flowers were basking in its warm glow.

Aziraphale gasped at the sight, and Crowley lead him further into garden.

The pink ranunculus was blooming, petals layered so finely it reminded Aziraphale of filo pastry, while the foxtail lilies with their spikes of star-petaled flowers and the colourful sea of gladiolus rose above the last few wilting tulips and the ruffled leaves of the irises. The Asiatic lilies splashed sunsets across the flower beds, and spiky brushes of liatrises were preparing to burst into colour. Butterflies were flocking to the red valerian, and the bees flying to and from the Bowles's Mauve to collect its nectar. The dahlias were Aziraphale’s particular favourite, petals almost geometric in their symmetry with their colourful pompom heads, perfectly impossible craftsmanship. It made him think of the miracle of nature, of God creating all things great and small; he may not take the bible literally, but he could see the influence of God in the beauty of the world.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale cooed, “This is beautiful!” 

“It’s pretty damn impressive,” Crowley agreed, tugging him closer, “This is the sort of garden I’d love to have.”

“Well, if it’s worth anything, I think your garden is just as lovely.”

“Hmm, well, yeah, for what I’m dealing with it’s not bad,” Crowley said, rubbing his fingers over the leaf of a lamb’s ear, “But it would be nice to have a proper outdoor garden.”

“Darling, I’m sure one day you will,” Aziraphale pecked him on the cheek, “A lovely big garden, with a greenhouse for your vegetables, and maybe a mini orchard at the bottom. And you’d have a simply lovely conservatory for all of your plants you have now to live in, and a neat little lawn to relax on in the summertime.”

Crowley swallowed, a little choked up at how well the image matched his ideal, “Yeah. And I’d have a few chairs, perfect for reading in the afternoon, and a little side table to store books, or cakes, or anything you like really.”

Aziraphale faced him then, gently stroking his cheek, “One day,” he said, and then kissed him under the shade of the hawthorn tree.

* * *

Crowley was on cloud nine when they made it back to the tent, smugly watching the makeup department try to fix Aziraphale’s ruffled hair. His own was a mess too, but he often ran his hands through it anyway, so it wasn’t totally suspicious; that and he quite liked how devilish it made him look.

They sat together again, of course, and while they didn’t hold hands like some of the other close contestants, they were touching shoulder to hip, Aziraphale’s hand resting on his own thigh and radiating heat.

“What an alternative week it has been,” one of the presenters began, “We’ve had fruity flapjacks, psyllium filled pittas, and vegetable stuffed Victoria’s.”

“Not you dear,” the other presenter joked to Victoria, who blushed violently as the others laughed.

“Yes, how about; not-so-carroty cakes instead? Yes, there we go.”

“Now,” the other continued, “I never thought I’d see the day I would eat and enjoy a vegetable cake. Especially one flavoured with parsnip and maple syrup, that’s right, our star baker is...Warlock!”

Warlock cheered, and Adam slapped him on the back proudly as Marie clapped politely on his other side. Crowley reached over to tap him on the shoulder, sending him a thumbs up and a heart-felt ‘well done’. Warlock was still beaming even after the bakers calmed down, practically vibrating in his seat as the presenters began talking again.

“And now, for the horrible job,” the presenter said gloomily, “For one of you, it’s unfortunately your last day in the tent, and the judges have decided that person is... Gwen.”

Gwen sighed and deflated a bit, “Makes sense. Aw, man.”

Marie hugged her tightly, aware how close it was between the two of them this week, “Sorry, Gwen,” she said, “There must have been nothing in it, really.”

“Na, your cake was way better than mine. Don’t worry about it,” she smiled a little sadly, “Besides, now I have a bit more time with Arthur and Lance.”

Marie laughed, “Fair enough.”

The judges and the presenters descended on them then, congratulating Warlock and commiserating Gwen in equal measure.

* * *

Both of them set their luggage down on the gravel drive, waving and wishing polite goodbyes to the other contestants who were boarding the minibus to the train station. Warlock, who had taken somewhat of a shine to Crowley, fist bumped him as he passed, and Adam copied his friend before they both gave Aziraphale a thumbs up and headed towards the bus with some playful shoves.

Gwen stopped to hug them both, giving Aziraphale a wink and a quick whispered, “I see you finally got your man.”

Aziraphale blushed, “It was a pleasure to meet you Gwen,” he deflected, and she sent him a smug look as she picked up her bag and left with Marie.

Once everyone was ready to go, Aziraphale waved them off enthusiastically until they were out of sight, in contrast to Crowley’s short salute like wave.

Now alone, Aziraphale turned to beam at him and Crowley cupped his face, gently guiding Aziraphale to look up at him. They held the eye contact for a sweet moment, until Crowley couldn’t help but kiss him again.

“We should probably start to head back, dear,” Aziraphale breathed when they broke apart minutes later, hands smoothing down Crowley’s lapels.

“Mmm, can’t we just stay here tonight?”

“We could,” Aziraphale simpered, “But I’d quite like to get out of these clothes.”

“All the more reason to stay,” Crowley grinned.

“You wily serpent, I am shocked you would even imply such a thing,” Aziraphale teased, kissing his nose, “But darling, I really would prefer not to wear the same shirt three days in a row.”

“But you look so good in it.”

“Don’t you think I look better out of it?”

“Excellent point,” Crowley pulled out his keys and practically dragged a laughing Aziraphale by the hand to the Bentley, “Your place or mine first, Angel?”

“Oh, the bookshop please, darling.”

“Your wish is my command!” Crowley said, “Want to stop off somewhere for dinner?”

“Actually,” Aziraphale said once they were out of the drive, “Now that I think about it, perhaps you had the right idea.”

“Huh?”

“Well, don’t you think we should celebrate a little?”

“I guess so,” Crowley said absently, flicking on his indicator and waiting for a car to pass, “We could go to the Ritz, if you like? I know a waiter there who could get us a seat without a reservation; he owes me a favour.”

“Oh, that does sound lovely, my dear, but I was thinking something more... adventurous!”

“Go on then,” Crowley sighed fondly, “What did you have in mind?”

“I was rather thinking we could have a nice little a holiday for ourselves. Pack a bag or two and go stay at a bed and breakfast somewhere nice.”

“So, you want to forgo fucking in this hotel, so we can go fuck in another hotel?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded, “I should rather hope we determined that its more than just fornicating between us, darling.”

Crowley shot him a look, “So you’re saying we won’t be having sex?”

Aziraphale blushed and shifted in his seat, “Well, I imagine if the mood is right, and we have a particularly nice dinner and-“ Crowley raised his eyebrow, and Aziraphale huffed, “Oh, bother, fine yes, perhaps without even all of that.”

Crowley leaned across to kiss him and landed one on his cheek; he was aiming for the lips but Aziraphale had squawked for Crowley to watch the road and turned his head away.

To compromise, Aziraphale took his free hand instead and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

“You know, Angel,” Crowley said affectionately, “Just to be clear, I’d go with you even if you never wanted sex again.”

“Oh Crowley,” he squeezed his hand tightly, “That’s so very sweet. But you really don’t have to worry about that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” Crowley was grinning manically, “So, where _did_ you want to go?”

“Well, I do so love the drive up to Scotland, and I haven’t visited Edinburgh since last year’s book festival...”

“Edinburgh. Consider it done, Angel,” he said, revving the engine and speeding off down the M4.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this originally had a completely different ending, with Aziraphale being frosty the morning after and right through the bake and more angst, but it just didn’t seem right so I rehashed some of the 3000 words I had, and may use the rest for a certain argument still to come... 
> 
> This chapter is supposed to parallel the Wessex scene but was a little trickier than adding in the Ark or literal Jesus - the flapjack is supposed to be a very vague reference to the foment being a type of porridge conversation, Gwen is from Arthurian legend, obligatory ‘knight in shining armour’ comment, and the progression of their relationship is the start of the ‘arrangement’ (even though that did happen after the scene rather than during). Phew.
> 
> The quote under the tree is from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
> 
> Also, I picked Aziraphale’s favourite flower as Dahlias because I think they’re lovely, and it turns out that they represent ‘one who stands strong in his sacred values’, elegance, inner strength, change, dignity, and an everlasting bond or union. So, basically Aziraphale!


	5. Week 5 - Tudor Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the views, kudos, and comments, I really appreciate them <3 )
> 
> Disclaimer: I know I mention Harry Potter in this, but I would just like to confirm that I do not agree with JK R*wling. Trans women are women.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait, it’s a beast of a chapter! Like, I never meant for it to be this long, oops  
> Edinburgh trip this week! I wonder if anyone can tell which city on the LNER route I live in just from my descriptions?? 
> 
> This week’s bakes are exactly as the challenges set in the S7 E6 of the GBBO for Tudor Week – tip, don’t make the jumbles, they are not worth the effort 
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos so far, I really appreciate it - and thank you for 1000 hits! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Aziraphale was rarely described as spontaneous, and it was rather showing. Normally he would have planned a trip weeks in advance, created a detailed itinerary, and be packed four days before, but now he only had a few hours before they were due to leave, and he hadn’t even chosen his suitcase for their Edinburgh excursion.

“Really, Angel,” Crowley said, looking at Aziraphale upside down with his head hanging off the end of the bed, “Just use the tartan one you always do.”

“Oh, but darling, what if I pick up some books while I’m there? There are so many lovely bookshops in Edinburgh,” Aziraphale fretted, “Perhaps the trunk would be better.”

“Then you can put the books in a canvas bag or something.”

Aziraphale glared at him, “A canvas- Crowley! These are priceless first editions we’re talking about!”

Crowley rolled over and raised an eyebrow at him, “That you haven’t even bought or know exist yet.”

“That is hardly the point, dear.”

“The point is, pick a case already,” he rose to his feet and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, “Come on, Angel, you’re the one who wanted to go.”

“Oh, so you don’t want come? Fine, I can go on my own,” Aziraphale scowled.

“Hey, hey,” he kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, “That’s not what I meant.”

Aziraphale stayed tense for a moment longer, then deflated in Crowley’s arms, “I know, dear. I’m sorry,” he loosened Crowley’s hold so he could turn around to face him and pecked him on the lips in apology.

“What’s wrong, Angel?” he asked softy.

“Oh, it’s nothing, truly darling. I just never do this sort of thing, you know. Running away on a spontaneous holiday with my lover. I’m rather thinking of all the ways it can go wrong.”

Crowley held him tighter, “Hmm, well, what things are you worried about?”

“Well, ah, what- what if we can’t find anywhere to stay, or you get tired on the drive and I can’t take over, or we don’t-“

“Slow down, Angel, one at a time,” Crowley interrupted, “What was the first thing?”

“Ah, well, what if we get there and there aren’t any vacancies?”

“If it would make you feel better I could look for somewhere before we go?”

“Oh, yes, that would be a weight off my mind.”

“Alright. What was the other thing?”

“Um, well, I know you wanted to take the Bentley, but we only have a few days and it’s such a distance. Perhaps we should take the train, darling?”

“It can’t be that far, can it?” Crowley mused, fishing his phone from his pocket and searching the route, “Seven hours? Fuck, well, maybe we are better getting the train,” he tapped the public transport option, “Eh, only four and a half. You want to get the train?”

“If that’s alright with you, dear, I know you’re not really a fan, and you were really looking forward to the drive...”

“Na, it’s fine, Angel. Besides, means I can kiss you without you telling me off for taking my eyes off the road.”

“Perhaps I’ll tell you off anyway,” he said with a grin.

Crowley stole a kiss, “Mmm, I hope you do. Your nose scrunches up in a simply adorable way when you pout.”

“It does not!” Aziraphale pouted, proving his point, and Crowley kissed it away.

Crowley pulled away and, a little breathless, asked, “Was there anything else you were worried about?”

“Only that you might get tired of me,” Aziraphale admitted, “But I rather think I’ve quelled that worry.”

“Never,” Crowley said, “I’d never get tired of you.”

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighed, touched.

“And next time you feel that way please tell me, so I can set you straight, Angel.”

Aziraphale looked down bashfully, “I’m sorry,” he said, “I know I’m being silly again.”

“Hey, no, it’s not silly. I didn’t mean for you to think that, Angel,” Crowley insisted, “I’d rather reassure you a thousand times than have you suffer in silence.”

“I really don’t know how I was lucky enough to meet such an absolute sweetheart as yourself.”

“Pretty sure I’m the lucky one here,” Crowley kissed him softly, “I mean, I’m dating an Angel _,_ after all.”

Aziraphale kissed him then, and they swayed together just to be close.

After they parted, Aziraphale returned to the wardrobe, and Crowley flopped down on the bed, tapping away furiously on his phone.

“I think I shall bring the trunk,” Aziraphale said decisively, picking it up and setting it down by the dresser, “Just in case.”

“Excellent choice,” Crowley said, all the while scrolling through last minute hotel deals and luckily finding that there were several hotels which had a free room, despite the busy summer season. He dithered between a few, but thought he ought to splash out and make their first mini-holiday memorable, “What about The Balmoral, Angel? For the hotel.”

“The- Do they really have a room? But they’re right on Princes Street!” Aziraphale beamed, bustling over and resting his chin on Crowley’s shoulder to see the phone, “That would be perfect, Crowley.”

“I’ll book it then,” he selected them a classic suite until Thursday morning, then with a few taps had made their reservation, “And we’re good to go!” he grinned.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale exclaimed and kissed him, feeling much more at ease with the trip now he’d gotten his worries off his chest, “I’m so excited!”

Crowley couldn’t resist the urge to feel his lips again, and Aziraphale moved to sit beside him while Crowley twisted to kiss him at a better angle. He closed his eyes and hummed into Aziraphale’s mouth, slipping his tongue inside and pressed him back against the bedspread. Aziraphale let his hands roam across Crowley’s body, tugging him closer by the hips and teased Crowley’s bottom lip between his teeth. He whined at the action, deepening the kiss and wandering hands sneaking up Aziraphale’s shirt.

Pausing to catch their breaths, Aziraphale looked up at him with a cross between fondness and lust in his eyes, and they smiled giddily at each other. Diving back in, their kiss softened, little pecks and presses of lips, cooling to gently nudging noses together. Crowley pulled back a little further and stroked a finger down Aziraphale’s cheek, just admiring his flushed face and bright eyes full of happiness. If it were up to him they’d stay here like this forever.

But they had a reservation, and he could picture the delighted smile Aziraphale would have when he was enjoying himself on holiday.

“We have a train to catch,” he said, quiet and soft between them.

“We do,” Aziraphale replied, just as gentle.

“And you still have to pack.”

“I do,” Aziraphale smiled.

They stayed in their embrace for a little longer, exchanging sweet kisses while Aziraphale ran his hand through Crowley’s hair, 

With impossible resolve, Crowley heaved himself to his feet and away from the bed.

“How long until we have to leave, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, sitting up and fixing his rumpled clothing.

“Well, I still need to pick up my bag, and we’re going to have to take the tube to Kings Cross, so, uh, by ten? If we want to leave London by eleven, anyway.”

“Splendid,” Aziraphale said checking his watch on the nightstand, “We have a good hour yet then. Ah, darling?”

“Hmm, yeah?”

“Since I have to pack still, and you will sadly be without anything to do...well-”

“Spit it out, Angel.”

“Would you be a dear and fetch me a cup of tea? And, ah, perhaps a croissant?”

Crowley levelled him with an unimpressed look for a good ten seconds, then sighed, “Two of those ones from Waitrose heated in the oven for five minutes and slathered with butter?”

Aziraphale shone so bright Crowley was nearly blinded, “With the Lurpak please.”

Crowley sauntered over to the door, and stopped to address him again, “You know you’re supposed to eat them with coffee, right? The French like to dunk them in it, actually.”

“Oh, what do the French know?” Aziraphale waved off with a grin, “They didn’t even invent the croissant, it’s just a repurposed kirpfel from Austria, which may have been a repurposed feteer meshaltet from Egypt.”

“Angel, as fascinating as this is, if you want one you’re going to have to let me go make it,” he said, edging into the hallway.

“Oh, fine, darling. But just let it be known that I shall eat my croissant how I like and will assuredly not be dunking it in coffee, of all things.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and made his way to the kitchen. It was the work of a few seconds to slide the premade croissants into the oven to cook and spent the five minute baking time scrolling through a list of things to do in Edinburgh. He reserved a table for them at a restaurant as a surprise for their last evening in Scotland, hoping that Aziraphale would like the idea of an ingredient only menu.

That sorted, he set about making the tea. Aziraphale normally liked to have a teapot made up in the morning, but he’d have to settle for a single cup today with their imminent departure. He didn’t have too many mugs to choose from, surprisingly; aside from the tartan one and the colour changing one, the remaining four were teacups with a yellow and brown sunflower pattern straight from the seventies. Crowley didn’t doubt that he had some more expensive sets in a cabinet somewhere, but suspected he risked death if he dared to use one of those for tea.

Grabbing the tartan mug, he dropped in a tea bag and three sugars, letting it steep for a bit while he took the now crispy croissants from the oven. He sliced them in half and buttered them with a generous portion of Lurpak, then topped the mug up with milk. Popping the teabag in the bin as he passed, he took the tea and croissant back to the bedroom.

“Your meal, sir,” Crowley announced as he entered the room, setting the plate on the side table and bowing with an exaggerated flourish.

Aziraphale put the jacket he had been folding into his suitcase and bustled over to his breakfast, “Oh, thank you darling,” he kissed him soundly, then tucked into his food with gusto.

Crowley watched him fondly for a moment, “You finished packing, Angel?”

He covered his mouth his hand while he finished chewing, “Mmm, just about. I have a few books I need to get from downstairs, and my coat. Oh, and my toiletry bag.”

“I’ll get that for you,” Crowley offered, “Just the usual stuff yeah? Toothbrush, shampoo, cologne...?”

“If you would, dear boy. The cologne should be on the windowsill, the ‘Sartorial’ please, darling.”

The bathroom was much less cluttered than the rest of the flat, but there was a wicker unit in the corner jam-packed with toiletries, and a few items scattered about on various surfaces. Not wanting to rifle through the drawers, he figured the shampoo and bodywash on the side of the bath would do and grabbed the toothpaste and toothpaste from the sink. There was a paisley cloth wash bag nestled on the windowsill, and with a quick check he saw it was already half full of the items Aziraphale took to the Bake Off each week. Some moisturiser, body lotion, deodorant, and hair moose was inside, and Crowley’s cheeks heated at the sight of the tube of lube they’d made use of two days ago. He didn’t know if Aziraphale had condoms here too but resolved to pack some of his own later just in case; they hadn’t used them either night they’d slept together, but he didn’t want to take that as blanket consent. Moving on, he slid the excess items into the bag, and finally added the shaving balm and razor on the glass shelf below the mirror.

On the windowsill was a wide array of perfume bottles, which all looked expensive but well-used, obviously the collection of a few years, and Crowley recognised something half-full that had been popular at least a decade ago. A few of the other scents seemed to all be from the same company, one with a deer-head cap, another with an orange ribbon, and two with little bowties around the necks. Crowley picked up the one Aziraphale requested and laughed at the way it suited him so perfectly; the liquid was honey coloured, with a lid like a glass stopper, the glass bottle vintage-looking and adorned with a little dove-grey bowtie. He took it and the toiletry bag into the bedroom and waved the bottle teasingly at Aziraphale while putting the bag in his suitcase.

“I cannot actually believe even your cologne has a bowtie,” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale brushed some crumbs off his lap and huffed, “I should have known you’d comment on it.”

“Did you buy it just because it looked like you?”

“Of course not! My barber recommended it. And it smells rather good.”

“Did he recommend it because it looked like you?” Crowley joked, then gently took the lid off and poised his finger on the atomizer, “Can I...?”

“Oh, yes, go ahead,” Aziraphale said, rising from the bed and setting the empty plate on his desk, “It has rather been my go to scent of late.”

Spraying it on the inside of his wrist, he handed the bottle off to Aziraphale to pack and then raised his wrist up to smell it. It was rather odd to smell something so purely Aziraphale and have it come from a bottle. It was the same scent he found at the juncture of his neck, in the air after a swish of his coat, and rich in almost every surface of this room. There was so much to it, layers upon layers of scents, starting with something spicy and flowing into something more floral and light, with just a touch of cedar.

“Ah, so this is why you smell so good,” Crowley said, tugging Aziraphale into an embrace, wanting to see how the fragrance differed on his skin, “Thought it was just you.”

“I rather think I’d be worth a fortune if I sweat out luxury cologne.”

“Not likely, I’m convinced you’ve never sweated a day in your life,” Crowley scoffed, “You wore your cardigan on the hottest day of the year! And I don’t think you’ve ever taken off your bowtie.”

“Well, that is simply not true; you’ve seen me in my pyjamas. And in much less.”

Crowley groaned, “You can’t just stand there and talk about being naked if you want us to leave on time.”

“Honestly, darling, you’re hardly a teenager anymore,” Aziraphale said, but kissed him lewdly anyway, “I am quite flattered that just the thought of me unclothed can have you raring to go.”

“Fuck,” Crowley groaned again, pushing himself away from Aziraphale with great effort, and standing on the other side of the bed, “I should be safe over here. No more kissing like that, Angel, or we’ll never even leave this room, never mind the bookshop.”

“Oh alright, dearest, I’ll be on my best behaviour,” he made the motion of the cross over his chest and said, “I promise.”

He was far too tempting when he acted coy.

“I should have dropped you off and gone back to my own flat,” Crowley grumbled.

“Whatever for, dearest?”

“Would have been the sensible thing to do; we might have actually been packed by now.”

“I am packed, see?” Aziraphale said, fastening the clasps on his bag and hauling it up, “But my dear, when have you ever been sensible?”

“Fair point,” Crowley left his post and took the bag from him, heading off down the stairs while Aziraphale switched the lights off along the way, “But it’s not like you are either. I know your game, Angel, sensible packaging hiding the madness within.”

“Oh, how terrible, you’ve discovered my secret, how did you possibly find out?” he said, deadpan.

“Only a madman would have the number of regency snuffboxes you do.”

“But they are so delightful! And that does remind me, there are some rather excellent antique emporiums in Edinburgh, we simply must go to one or two.”

Crowley sighed, “I guess we’re both madmen then. Yes, we can go hunt for snuffboxes if it makes you happy.”

“Crowley,” he chirped delightedly, and pecked him on the cheek as he slipped past to collect his planned reading material.

* * *

In contrast to their morning at Aziraphale’s flat, the trip to Crowley’s place took less than half an hour. He dumped the clothes out of his bag from the weekend, set up Aziraphale with another cup of tea, and hopped into a much need shower. When he returned, Aziraphale was in the bedroom with his tea, case open on the bed with a few items neatly folded in.

“Oh, Crowley, I just thought I’d get started on the packing for you,” he said cheerily, pausing to take a sip of his drink.

Crowley pecked him on the forehead in thanks as he made his way over to the dresser, “Thanks, Angel.”

“I figured I couldn’t go wrong with some of your jeans, a few pairs of underwear and socks, and some pyjamas. I rather thought I’d leave the shirts to you,” Aziraphale said, folding another set of black skinny jeans into the case.

“What do I even need the pyjamas for?” Crowley asked, cheekily whipping off his towel while he chose his clothes for the day. He was extremely satisfied by Aziraphale’s double take at the sight.

“Oh, good lord,” Aziraphale sighed, “Must you, Crowley?”

He carried his clothes to the bed and set them down next to Aziraphale, drawing out his nakedness as long as possible to try and fluster him, “Mmm, just giving you a preview, Angel.”

“I hardly need a preview when I’ve already seen the whole show, dearest.”

“You can’t have seen the show if new episodes come out. Which they will, this week,” Crowley said with a huff, actually dressing now.

“New epi- I thought the show was you? What are you planning to do? Grow an extra limb?”

“No! The show is the experience of me, you know- oh forget it.”

“It’s not a show I’m adverse to watching again, if that’s your worry,”

“It’s a sh- you know what? Forget the whole show metaphor, it’s frying my brain,” Crowley said, sitting beside him, “All I meant was that I was planning to have incredibly incredible posh hotel sex with you.”

“Crowley!”

“What? It’s a _show you’ve seen before,”_ Crowley mimicked, not at all accurately in Aziraphale’s opinion.

Aziraphale shot him a look, “I do wish you’d be more romantic about it.”

“Hey! I booked you a fancy romantic hotel room, didn’t I?”

“With salacious intentions.”

“And I agreed to go antique shopping with you!”

“With reluctance.”

“And I booked us a fancy romantic restaurant!”

Aziraphale looked at him sharply, “You have?”

“Ye- oh, bollocks,” Crowley cursed, “That was supposed to be a surprise,” he whined.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said delightedly and kissed him on the cheek, practically melting into him, “Really? Where at?”

“Nuh-uh, Angel, I’ve still got half a surprise left, you’ll find out when we get there.”

“But darling,” he pouted, “What if I already have plans too?”

“Have you?”

They locked eyes.

Then, a sigh, “No, I haven’t.”

“Come on, Angel, you only have to wait a few days to find out. I’m pretty sure you’ll like it. Probably.”

“But what if I need my suit? I didn’t pack it.”

“Yes you did, I saw it,” Crowley said, “I watched you fold it and put it in.”

“That was my _other_ suit, darling, it’s hardly suitable for a high calibre restaurant.”

“As far as I’m aware it doesn’t have a dress code.”

Aziraphale did not look convinced. In fact, he looked ready to head to Saville Row and get a new suit just for the occasion.

“Look, I’ll google it, alright?” Crowley sighed, pulling out his phone and then angled it away from Aziraphale’s prying eyes.

“Really my dear, you don’t have to hide your screen quite so voraciously.”

“Yes I do. I know you Angel, and I know you can be a nosy bastard when you want to be.”

“How dare you! I’m not nosy,” Aziraphale said indignantly, “I am just very observant.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” Crowley retorted, then tapped something on his screen triumphantly, “Ha! See, ‘we have no dress code, some people get quite dressy, but most come smart casual.’”

“Let me see that-“ Aziraphale tried, but Crowley had already closed the tab and pulled his phone out of reach.

“I know what game you’re playing, Angel.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms exaggeratedly, “Oh, you’re no fun.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around him and kissed his obnoxiously all over his face so he couldn’t ignore him. He paused after a lovely peck to his jaw, resting his face there, “I like it, you know. That you’re a nosy bastard. Wouldn’t be half as much fun if you weren’t.”

Aziraphale gazed at the top of his head fondly, “And I like that you’re rather vulgar, sometimes. And just a little, tiny weeny bit romantic.”

* * *

Being the middle of the summer holidays, the train was packed heading out of Kings Cross. Crowley managed to elbow his way onto the train with Aziraphale in tow, setting their suitcases down against the wall of the vestibule and squishing together, no hope of a seat for this leg of the journey. Crowley held onto the yellow pole by the door, Aziraphale’s hand on Crowley’s waist, keeping him upright, and it was nice to be so close together, even if their legs were aching a little already.

The train dipped into darkness as it left the station through a tunnel, soon emerging into the city, rolling by stadiums and tower blocks, the grey transitioning to the green-brightness of the countryside. They weren’t going so fast that they couldn’t make out some of the nicer features, fields of horses and cows, wind turbines on hillsides, and murmurations of birds.

As they passed over a little river and under a blue wrought iron bridge, the train slowed approaching their first stop at Peterborough. A few people were lining up by the door to get off, and Crowley pushed even closer to Aziraphale to let them through. Through the inner carriage door he could see a free seat and ducked out on a confused Aziraphale to check its reservation ticket. It was apparently unreserved until York, though the seat beside it was booked solid, and Crowley hurried back to Aziraphale.

“Angel, there’s a seat free through here,” he said, attempting to tug him through.

“Oh, how lovely,” Aziraphale smiled, “Help me with the bags, dear.”

“No, no, there’s no space for bags, it’s rammed in there. I’ll just stay here with them.”

“What? No! We can sit with them on our laps, surely?”

“There’s only the one seat anyway, Angel, really I don’t mind waiting here.”

“Well I do,” Aziraphale insisted, pointedly setting his case back down, “I don’t want to go off and sit on my own without you, darling.”

“Well, I’m not taking the seat and leaving you here either,” Crowley said, moving back to his previous position in front of Aziraphale.

“Then I guess someone else can have it.”

“Angel,” Crowley griped, “You are unbelievably stubborn. Just take the seat, relax, read your book and I’ll join you at the next stop.”

“I’m sorry Crowley, but I simply must insist,” he rubbed a thumb across Crowley’s knuckles on the pole, “It’s our first holiday, darling, I don’t want to sit apart from you even if it gives me a bit of discomfort.”

Before Crowley could reply the train came to a halt and the doors beeped open, letting out the commuters. Even more got on though, the seat they were bickering over quickly filled, as well as the aisle of the carriage. Some gave up their seats for a family to sit together, others staunchly ignoring the elderly man supporting himself on a seatback. When the door clicked shut they were even more cramped together.

“Well its gone now anyway,” Crowley sighed, “Are you sure you’ll be alright? It’ still an hour until York.”

“I’m not a senior citizen, Crowley,” he said crossly, “I can stand still for an hour without collapsing.”

“I know that, Angel, just, I still don’t want you to be uncomfortable. How about this?” Crowley asked, moving Aziraphale’s sturdy trunk from beside them to behind Aziraphale at just the right height to half-sit on, “There, at least you can rest your legs a bit now.”

“Alright, darling,” Aziraphale caved, “If it would make you feel better.”

“It would,” Crowley brushed his hair back and pecked him chastely on the lips.

Aziraphale perched on the case, admittedly more comfortable than he was before, watching Peterborough Cathedral go by. The hour sped by, Crowley reluctantly acknowledging that it was Aziraphale’s company that made it so, which the blonde was pleased as punch about when Crowley let the thought slip.

They alternatingly passed by towns and countryside, through Doncaster where Aziraphale had to rifle through his pockets to find the paper tickets he’d insisted upon for the ticket inspector, and alongside fields still feeling the effects of last month’s flooding. They could see the city walls on the approach to the station, with the scaffolded York Minster in the distance over the Ouse.

As they’d hoped many people departed at York, freeing up half the carriage and a space on the luggage rack. Crowley practically pounced, sliding Aziraphale’s case on the shelf while Aziraphale managed to find them a table seat that was unreserved until Newcastle. There was no-one opposite them for now, and Crowley took the opportunity to stretch out his legs with a pleased groan.

“Are you comfortable there, dearest?” Aziraphale grinned at him.

“Mmm, as well as I can be, I suppose. Making the most of the leg room while I can.”

“Serves you right for being ninety percent leg,” he teased nudging Crowley’s leg with his knee.

Crowley nudged right back, “You’re not that much shorter, Angel.”

“Ah, but I am not proportioned like Puddleglum.”

“I’m sure that would’ve been scathing if I had any idea who that was.”

Aziraphale tutted, “Honestly, darling, he’s from _The Silver Chair_ , one of the Narnia books.”

“Never heard of it. I’m going to assume this Puddleglum fellow is an irresistibly charming hero, though.”

“I suppose he has his charms, of sorts,” Aziraphale laughed, “But I like you much better, dearest.”

“I should hope so,” Crowley leaned into his side, legs spreading out into the aisle now most passengers had settled. Comfortable and warm against Aziraphale, Crowley let his eyes slip closed, the gentle rolling of the train lulling him to a light slumber.

Eventually, a good half hour after they left York, there was the rattle of wheels and the quiet murmur of voices at the end of the carriage that jerked Crowley awake..

Crowley peered down the aisle, “Trolley’s coming round,” he said to Aziraphale, “You hungry, Angel?”

“Oh rather, dear, I know I had a late breakfast, but I could do with a sandwich,” Aziraphale replied, reaching in his coat pocket to pull out his wallet.

Crowley quickly pulled out his phone, “Don’t worry about it, Angel, I’ve got it,” he gestured to his phone, “Apple pay.”

“Thank you, darling,” Aziraphale beamed, patting Crowley’s thigh, “You’re much too kind.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t go telling the world,” Crowley grumbled.

He got a black coffee for himself, and a cup of tea and sandwich for Aziraphale, who had been a little disappointed at the limited selection. He also quietly ordered some shortbread, knowing Aziraphale might be peckish later, and set it aside on the table.

The sandy yorkstone clad estates petered out to be replaced with the darker brick terraces, signalling their shift out of Yorkshire. The train sped through Darlington while Aziraphale picked at his sandwich and sipped at his tea.

Crowley slid the shortbread he’d ordered over to the blond, “I can see you’re not the biggest fan of the catering, Angel.”

He took the biscuits gratefully, “It’s not _awful_ , darling. Just, there no flavour! They could have at least had honey mustard, or mmm, I do love Branston pickle.”

“Trains not being the height of gourmet food, who knew?” Crowley said sarcastically, swiping up an unfinished crust.

Aziraphale huffed, biting into his shortbread, “Well, I’m sure they would get much more commerce if they were.”

It wasn’t long before the train pulled into its next stop, Durham station truly a beautiful one especially when leaving, the tracks high up on the hill offering an uninterrupted view all across the city, Victorian mining terraces cobbling the way down to the iconic cathedral. Highlighted with the afternoon sun and wispy clouds across the sky it looked like a postcard.

The stretch between Durham and Newcastle was the shortest of the trip, those departing at Tyneside already up from their seats and waiting by the doors. The train slowed on its approach to Newcastle, stopping while it waited for a station allocation right on High Level Bridge with an unparalleled view out across the River Tyne. Aziraphale leaned against Crowley’s shoulder to look out of the opposite window and catch a glimpse of the iconic Tyne Bridge arcing across the water, the Millennium Bridge stood proudly behind, the mirrored orb of the Sage casting sunrays across the river, and specks of people out enjoying the sunshine along the quayside. Behind them the river wound itself under the conspicuous blue metro bridge and curved off further inland.

They were jolted a little in their seats as the train started again, pulling into the Victorian marvel of Newcastle Central Station with its arched metal roof and iron beams. A couple in the opposite aisle gathered their things to leave, and Crowley could see the little electronic reservation displayed the unreserved message. Crowley gently nudged Aziraphale from where he was admiring the station and helped him to move seats. He let Aziraphale take the window seat again while he shifted his case from the overhead rack to the one above their own.

The table seat quickly filled once the crowds at Newcastle boarded, and the scenery switched from the mix of Victorian and eighties architecture to the rolling Northumberland fields, opening out to give a marvellous view of the North Sea and Holy Island, Lindisfarne high on the island’s cliffs. Then, tight to the coast, the track curved onto the Royal Border Bridge, the only sight better than the view from the Tweed was the one while travelling across the bridge, views panning over Berwick and out to the endless expanse of the sea. This was their last English stop, and in fact their last before Edinburgh, and Aziraphale eagerly stared out of the window to catch the border marker.

“Crowley look!” Aziraphale wiggled in his seat as the tracks seemed to sit right at the edge of the cliffs, waves flowing calmly against the rocks beneath them. Blink and you’d miss it, the sign for Scotland flashed by and Aziraphale let out a little cheer, “Welcome to Scotland!”

“Cor blimey, didn’t realise the tracks ran this close!” Crowley said, barely being able to see land between the train and the sea.

“Oh, yes, it is considered one of the most beautiful routes in the UK you know,,” Aziraphale sighed contentedly, “Though the line from Exeter to Paignton is a close contender.”

“Huh, I’ve never been to Devon,” Crowley commented, “And I’d have probably driven if I had anyway.”

“We should add it to the list, then. Cornwall too. Oh! We could visit Tywardreath, where Daphne du Maurier lived.”

Crowley looked at him surprised, “Didn’t realise we had a list, Angel.”

“Of course; there are so many things I should like to experience with you,” he beamed.

A slow smile spread across Crowley’s face, happiness bubbling up at the thought of their planned future, “Me too, Angel.”

The track left the coast and detoured inland through dense heathland, coming close again as the tracks weaved in and around the A1 up to Dunbar. They could see Bass Rock in the distance, the Firth of Forth already in view as the veered West towards Edinburgh, Fife on the horizon over the water. Soon they were racing through suburbs, the train then passing by Arthur’s seat and dipping into a final tunnel before finally, pulling into Waverly.

* * *

They were both tired when they finally rolled into Edinburgh, the bright four o’clock sunshine in juxtaposition with their lethargy. Thankfully the walk to The Balmoral was a short one, the hotel mere yards away from stairs of the Princes Street exit where Crowley heaved up their bags.

Aziraphale guided Crowley through the impressive entrance, flags fluttering above the door in the mild breeze of the day as they ducked through the doorway. Almost as soon as they were inside an attendant in Balmoral tartan kilt came to take their bags, and Aziraphale thanked them delightedly. He weaved his hand into Crowley’s and together they followed the concierge to the desk.

Check-in was thankfully fast, and soon they were shown to their room, a suite on the fourth floor. The suite was huge, two separate rooms and a fabulous marble bathroom, with a walk in wardrobe, no less. The colour scheme was much more Aziraphale than Crowley, pastel greens, and soft browns throughout, but despite the vintage feel of the place the furniture was a modern take on the theme, simple black glass tables and sideboards alongside the soft velvet sofa. The windows were framed in green linen, looking out over the curved streets of Old Town, towering houses dipping up and down the ridges of Castle Rock. Aziraphale sighed contentedly at the view. 

The first thing Crowley did was flip the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door.

“Really, my dear, is that necessary?” Aziraphale asked, placing his case on the armchair in the corner.

“Don’t tell me you planned to do anything other than stay in bed all afternoon?”

“Well I had hoped to try the restaurant downstairs,” he began unpacking his bag, settling the folded clothes on the bed one by one.

“My schedule can accommodate for that, Angel. Between rounds three and four, I think,” Crowley said, shucking his jacket and unbuttoning his shirt.

“You do think highly of our refractory times, darling.”

“What can I say? You’re like walking Viagra,” Crowley grinned, tossing his clothes on the floor and starting on his belt.

Aziraphale grimaced, putting his stack of six books on the nightstand, “Oh, that one was rather tasteless.”

“It’s true though! Alright, forget the analogies; you make me really horny, how about that?” Crowley said, now standing naked but for his boxers in front of the window, staring contemplatively at the curtains, “Open? Closed?”, he tried to gauge angles of sight with his hands, “No-one can see if the curtains are open, just so you know.”

“Romance, dearest,” Aziraphale reminded him, carrying his clothes to the wardrobe, and calling out behind him, “’ _Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.’”_

Crowley snorted, “Oh yeah, that’s romantic, is it?” he turned away from the window to see Aziraphale coming through the door with a smile.

He joined him by the bed, still fully dressed, and took hold of Crowley’s hips, “You have to admit it’s nice to be regaled with poetry, erotic or not. Though I am a fan of this kind of direct action. From you, at least,” he said, stroking down Crowley’s bare chest.

“Hmm, wasn’t sure it was working, to be honest. You seemed very dedicated to unpacking,” Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s bowtie loose.

“Being seduced is no reason to be uncouth, darling,” he glanced pointedly at the clothes on the floor.

Crowley tugged his bowtie off completely and then deliberately dropped it on the carpet between them.

Aziraphale looked at the fabric on the floor, then back up at Crowley’s face, gaze steely. It was a battle of wills, neither man backing down; Crowley raised his eyebrow in challenge, and Aziraphale furrowed his own in response, doubling down on the disappointment in his eyes. The first cracks formed in Crowley’s defence, just a tiny softening of his eyes, a Pavlovian response to any sort of distress from Aziraphale, and the blonde didn’t miss it. He turned the corners of his mouth down, lips somewhere between a frown and a pout. It was super effective, and Crowley broke eye contact, just for a fraction of second, but enough that Aziraphale knew he’d broken through. All it took now was Aziraphale clearing his throat, a small tilt of the head and- bingo! Crowley loosened and sighed, grumbling as he bent down to pick up the tie.

“Happy now?” he asked, twining the soft fabric between his fingers.

“And the rest?”

Crowley rolled his eyes and turned to do as he was told, hiding his smile as he gathered his shirt and trousers.

“And if you could put them away properly, in the wardrobe,” Aziraphale stepped over to pick up Crowley’s untouched case, holding it out expectantly, “And this too, dearest.”

Crowley scuttled off to the walk-in wardrobe, and emptied his case as fast as he could, making sure the clothes looked at least partially folded and stacked in somewhat sensical piles.

“Alright, Angel, I’ve done what you asked, now can we fu- uh, ngk.”

He stopped dead in the doorway.

Aziraphale was sitting enticingly on the bed, one leg crossed over the other and stripped down completely naked. Watching Crowley heatedly, he uncrossed his legs, splaying his thick thighs, “What was that darling?”

On the floor beside the bed were the remains of his outfit.

“Oh, you beautiful bastard,” Crowley growled, practically tearing off his boxers and pouncing onto the bed.

* * *

“That was scrumptious,” Aziraphale said, setting his fork down and dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

“I figured, from the way you were licking the spoon,” Crowley grinned, taking his hand across the table.

“You know I like to savour my food, darling,” he pouted, “Anyway, I was thinking, should we take a walk tonight?”

“If you like. Thought you might be too tired- not like that, Angel,” he clarified in response to Aziraphale’s disapproving look, “It’s been a long day, is all.”

“Not too long though, darling,” he said, rubbing his thumb across Crowley’s knuckles, “And wouldn’t it be lovely to go up to Calton Hill? See the sunset, together.”

“Hmm, could do,” Crowley smiled fondly, “Alright then, Angel, a walk it is.”

With the restaurant onsite, they had mostly been dressed to stay in, Aziraphale in his cardigan and Crowley in a black fluffy turtleneck, but with the mild evening neither bothered to change for their stroll. Crowley volunteered to grab their wallets and his phone from the room just in case, leaving Aziraphale in the foyer with a kiss, and soon they were on their way hand in hand.

The high-street was still busy, couples and families and friends enjoying the break in the hot weather that the dusk brought. They could already see the Scottish Parthenon and the Nelson Monument from the hotel, and as they passed more iconic architecture the clouds began to spill in burst of orange across the sky, the sun hovering above Scott Monument behind them. 

It was barely ten minutes to the steps nestled in the hillside. They walked up the first set together, but midway through the lengthier second set Aziraphale had to stop, clutching the rail.

“You alright, Angel?” Crowley asked, kissing the back of his hand.

“Just catching my breath, dear,” Aziraphale reassured breathily, “I didn’t expect quite so many stairs. Hills I can manage, but there’s just something about stairs that really do me in.”

“Want a bit of a break?”

“Oh, no, you’re alright, darling, only a few more to go. You can go on ahead, if you like.”

Crowley stepped to the side and further into Aziraphale’s space to allow a group of tourists to pass, “Na, I’m good here, take your time, Angel.”

Aziraphale smiled at him gratefully.

A minute or so later, Aziraphale stood up straighter, and with a deep breath ascended the remaining steps. Breath still a little laboured, he walked slower than before up the slope to the top, Crowley beside him, enthusing about the old City Observatory.

The path opened out to the top of the hill, paths cascading off to the multitude of features, the National Monument standing proud in front of them, tall Greek-inspired towers taking Aziraphale back to a past holiday in Athens many years ago; he should like to go back someone, hopefully with Crowley in tow. The best view over the city was along the path that curved sharp behind them, tucked almost out of sight. Looping past the memorial for Dugald Stewart, Aziraphale noted it was no less influenced by ancient Greek architecture, the statue almost a temple with its fluted Corinthian columns on their circular podium. Crowley tugged him up a makeshift path in the grass hillside, and while he had tutted at ruined grass, the view afforded at the top more than made up for it.

“Oh, Crowley,” he whispered, and wrapped his arm around Crowley’s waist.

Standing on the path in front of the old observatory, they could see across the whole of Edinburgh, from Leith and the Firth of Forth to down south over Blackford Hill, sky awash with pinks and purples, as though it had been painted by Monet himself. Clouds of lilac nestled across the canvas, sun peeking out behind them, fiery beams alighting each earthen brick it touched. As dusk neared, the last of the light slipping behind the horizon, the city itself lit up, streetlights creating carved channels of glowing embers across the landscape. They could see The Balmoral Clock in dappled yellow, like a Byzantine beacon, the chain continuing up to the illuminated Edinburgh Castle keeping watch over the city.

Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder, hand idly stroking his hip, “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Crowley pressed a kiss to his hair, and kept his cheek nestled against the pillow-soft curls.

They watched as colour drained from the clouds, the sky not-quite inky black but more of a hazy blue from the light pollution of the capital. The only stars were from the windows and cars down below, twinkling in ever changing constellations. More and more of the other visitors began to leave as the darkness settled, until there were only three of four couples aside from Aziraphale and Crowley. The chill had settled in more now and, huddling close to Crowley, Aziraphale lead him back down the hill.

There was something so lovely about the air at night, the streets feeling like a little secret of their own, a quiet sense of peace even with the occasional reveller or car passing by. Neither man wanted to break the tranquillity of it, more being said in their gentle touches and closeness than any words could, and it was a mood that they carried with them back to their hotel room.

While earlier today had been about the fun of sex, the giddiness of wanting each other, tonight was softer, a means of being as close as possible, attempting to share this feeling, infuse it into the other’s flesh. Was it too early to call it making love? No words were forthcoming from either of them, but the sentiment was hidden in breathless moans and linked palms, in tender kisses and painted chests, in holding each other too tight when all was said and done. It was in the touch of a warm cloth against skin, in the side-by-side nightly routine, in the tangled feet as they settled in to sleep, and in the dreams of serpents and angels.

* * *

“Darling,” Aziraphale called gently, running a hand through Crowley’s hair the next morning.

The redhead scrunched up his face and curled up under the sheets, “Mergh.”

“Crowley, dearest,” Aziraphale laughed, kissing the charming ridge of his nose, “We can’t stay in bed all day.”

“Can,” Crowley mumbled into the pillow.

“You promised we could go shopping today.”

“Didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Nuh. Tired. Time s’it?”

“Just after eight, dear.”

Crowley groaned, “Eight? You’re a bastard.”

“Come now, dearest, I should like to make the most of our trip.”

Crowley didn’t respond at first, just took a moment to savour the warmth of the bed in silence, and then with a long loud whine he rolled on his back and rubbed his eyes, “Alright. I’m up, I’m up.”

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale patted him on the stomach, “I’ve already had my shower, darling, so the bathroom is free should you need it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going. I need to wash my hair.”

He heaved himself out of bed and into the shower, and when he returned Aziraphale was in the armchair with one of his books. He wasn’t wearing his jacket or his waistcoat, instead in a pale white and cream checked shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a little red bow tie at his throat, his tweed brown slacks held up by a pair of braces.

“I like the bowtie, Angel,” Crowley appraised, straightening it and pecking him on the cheek.

“Oh really? Thank you, my dear,” he smiled, setting his book aside and following Crowley to the wardrobe, “I bought it some time ago and quite forgot about it until I happened upon it while packing.”

“Yeah, you should wear red more. Not that I don’t like the pastel aesthetic, of course.”

“Only if you wear less black,” he teased, “Not that you don’t look good in that, either.”

“Hmm, I could do. I didn’t pack anything to that effect unfortunately,” Crowley said, trying to decide between a black tank top and a black shirt. In the end he went with the shirt, a Cuban collar with dark red lining peeking out from the rolled short sleeves. Despite the already low neckline, he left the top two buttons undone, then tucked the hem into his jeans, and ruffled his hair in the mirror to just how he liked it.

Aziraphale watched him fondly from the doorway, “You look beautiful, my darling.”

Crowley ducked his head bashfully at the genuine compliment; he was used to being sexy, or enticing, or even handsome, but there was something about being called beautiful that was much more personal.

“Thanks Angel,”

“I’ve ordered breakfast to be brought up, by the way, dear,” Aziraphale said, fussing to tidy up a little, “And I know you don’t normally partake, but I thought you might like to try the waffles.”

“You mean you’d like to try them alongside your full English.”

“It’s a full Scottish, darling. It comes with haggis and tattie scones!” Aziraphale said but didn’t dispute Crowley’s accusation.

As if summoned, there was a knock at the door and a waiter was rolling in a trolley laden with cloche covered dishes. They settled at the little table under the window with their food, the fair share of the plates on Aziraphale’s side. He’d been delighted by the waffle, which was cooked in sticks rather than the usual squares and slathered in sticky maple syrup and he stared at it longingly. Crowley did have a few bites, if only to tease Aziraphale, but soon pushed the plate over to him as he turned back to his coffee.

Breakfast finished, Crowley helped Aziraphale to stack the plates neatly, moving the tray into the lounge room for the cleaners to pick up easier.

“Ready to go, Angel?” Crowley asked, slipping on his boots and fixing his shirt.

“Absolutely, my dear,” he replied, adjusting his braces with a snap, and then took Crowley’s arm.

True to his word, Crowley dutifully followed Aziraphale around several of Edinburgh’s well known antiques shops, and quite a few unknown ones too, trying to dissuade Aziraphale from buying a 17th century oak gateleg table, or a pair of expensive Swedish silver candlesticks. He found a real gem in a glass case in the back room of one of the stores, a Georgian hollowed horn snuff box fitted with a silver lid, and beside it a simpler treasure, a papier-mâché box with a charming hunting dog scene painted on, but what sold it for the blonde was the note alongside, a little missive on its provenance. 

It was Crowley who spotted Aziraphale’s favourite find, his untrained eye roaming over shelves stuffed with antiques until he spotted a little book. Picking it up with curiosity, he was surprised to find it was actually a little wooden box carved to look like a book, with inlaid metal decorations and cover that slid open to reveal the compartment. He carried it over to Aziraphale, who as soon as he saw it gasped and put down the toby jug he’d been admiring with glee.

“Oh, Crowley,” he said, admiring it from all sides, “This is simply lovely, my dear boy.”

“Yeah? Figured you’d like something book shaped,” he grinned, “Well? Is it incredibly rare and valuable? Do I have a future as an antiques dealer?”

“Well, not incredibly rare no, but it’s not two-a-penny,” he flicked over the price label, “Yes, rather reasonable indeed.”

Crowley snorted, attempted to take it back from him, “Knew I’d pick some tat.”

Aziraphale hugged it closer to his chest, “Nonsense, darling, I love it. I simply must have it.”

And with that he took his finds to the dealer to haggle a price.

It was a good job Aziraphale had packed his larger case, with the amount of antiques he’d bought, including three more snuffboxes, silver and mother of pearl and Mauchline ware, and then a rare erotic booklet from the 1800s with wonderfully lewd illustrations, an 1860s edition of Homer’s Iliad, a late Victorian four set of ‘The Imperial Shakspere’ complete with spelling error, and finally a copy of the works of Lord Byron as signed by Teresa Makri, the Maid of Athens herself.

While Aziraphale had been off chatting all things snuffbox related with the dealer of one of the last shops they visited, Crowley had sneaked over to the till and purchased a two volume hardback of the works of Robert Burns that Aziraphale had missed, making sure to have them wrapped and hid the bag behind the others he had been carrying for him; it would be nice to actually have a surprise for him now that he’d let his restaurant plans slip.

“Oh, there you are darling,” Aziraphale said from behind him, and Crowley spooked a little, worried that Aziraphale had seen his secret present. It seemed he hadn’t noticed, thankfully, and instead he placed a pair of tiny wooden shoes on the counter, “I simply could not resist these!”

They were very intricately done, brogue pattern inlaid with silver across the shoe, even with the seams and lace holes barely a millimetre across. They had little silver caps in the toes and the heels, and the top of the boots slid open to reveal the little snuff cavity.

“They look like yours,” Crowley said, gesturing lightly to Aziraphale’s brogues.

“They do a bit, don’t they?” Aziraphale grinned, wiggling his feet a little.

Final purchase made, they ambled back to the hotel to deposit the wide array of items they’d bought, Crowley hiding the books in his case while Aziraphale was in the bathroom and doing his best not to look suspicious about it.

* * *

Deciding to visit the castle, they wandered hand in hand along the heaving Royal Mile, Crowley managing to stop Aziraphale from popping into some of the antique stores he spotted on the way. Once up on the esplanade of Castle Hill it was a little less busy, and they passed beneath the entrance gate, guarded by the statues of Robert the Bruce and William Wallace, under the Royal Stuart motto ‘ _nemo me impune lacessit’_ emblazoned in blue on the entrance and the gold gilded Royal Arms of Scotland. It was still a long wait for tickets though, the hot summer day drawing out all sorts of tourists to arguably the star attraction of Edinburgh, but eventually they got their tickets and walked the cobbled path up through the Portcullis Gate as Aziraphale studied the map intensely. Crowley nudged him with the back of his hand as gate opened out to a bright courtyard, the six guns of the Argyle Battery spread out in formation along the wall.

They dodged around some tourists to stand next to one of the canons, Aziraphale gasping beside him as he took in the view; it was even more impressive than Calton Hill, the daylight letting them see every feature of Edinburgh, from Princes Street Gardens all the way out into the firth, Inchkeith island and Fife clear on the horizon. Aziraphale flitted between reading the plaque on the wall and looking out at the view, while Crowley admired the pretty courtyard to the left, the lofty trees and rows of grey-brick houses sloping down the hill.

After their fill of the view, they moved on to the next part as suggested on the map, and Aziraphale grimaced at the Lang Stairs, the name just as intimidating as the sight of the seventy steps themselves. They were busy too, tourists squeezing past each other ascending and descending, and to him it seemed like everyone was climbing them with an ease he couldn’t match.

“Angel,” Crowley said, gently tugging him away, “No point going up that way when you can just walk up the ramp,” he gestured off towards the curving road, where a father was pushing a pram up the incline, and a person on crutches was trying to navigate the cobbles, “Those stairs look like a death trap anyway.”

“But the guidebook says-“

“If we do what the guidebook says, we’ll be herding around the place like cattle. Wouldn’t you rather be able to think without people chatting too loudly or not looking after their kids?”

There had been a few unruly kids trying to climb on the guns, and a few others were practically screaming as they raced each other up the stairs, “I do suppose the ramp looks nicer.”

“Exactly,” he took the map from Aziraphale and tried to get it bearings, “So, now it’s... the Governor’s House, oooh, reportedly haunted, nice!”

“Darling, the bookshop is apparently haunted, if you believe those silly tourist websites,” Aziraphale pulled the map back, “Besides, you can’t go in, conveniently. Oh, and you can’t with the Barracks either!”

Crowley leaned against his shoulder to see the map, and then pointed at the tearoom close by, “Hmm, how about we eat first? It is almost twelve. Oh, and if we stay long enough we can get to hear the One O’clock Gun.”

Never one to turn down food, Aziraphale agreed and they headed to the Redcoat Café just off from the cannons; it was just starting to fill up when they got there and grabbed a table before an influx of people hurried to get lunch too. Even with a seat in the middle of the room they had a nice view out over the Firth of Forth, and with the delicious food on offer – local fish and chips for Aziraphale and Crowley trying some Cullen Skink – and Crowley by his side, Aziraphale couldn’t be more content.

He was rather shocked, then, by the loud bang from outside that even had Crowley’s soup sloshing off the spoon.

“Good lord,” Aziraphale said clutching his chest, “I hadn’t realised it was one o’clock already.”

“You’re telling me,” Crowley frowned, dabbing at a drop on his shirt, “I liked this shirt too.”

“Oh, it’ll be alright, darling, a little bit of baking soda will get that right out.”

“Yeah, I’ll just break into my stash of bicarb that I carry everywhere with me,” Crowley said sarcastically, to which Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

After they departed the café they tackled the small hill past the Government House and Barracks, and while they weren’t open to the public, they were nice enough buildings to look at, especially when taking a little break halfway up the hill. Around the corner of the barracks was the Royal Scots Museum, and Crowley followed as Aziraphale oohed and aahed at each exhibit, even excitedly telling the redhead little titbits of facts that weren’t featured. Upon seeing the donation box he fished out his wallet and dropped a twenty pound note in, which Crowley, feeling magnanimous, matched when Aziraphale wasn’t looking.

Crowley had to dissuade Aziraphale from dropping in on the research facility and library next door unannounced, and instead enthused him with the idea of visiting the chapel. It was further up the path, through Foog’s Gate and past the large stone Reservoirs, and the little platform before it gave an even better view of Edinburgh.

“According to the guide this is the oldest building in Edinburgh,” Aziraphale read, walking over to the entrance before realising Crowley wasn’t following, “Darling? Aren’t you coming?”

“Ah, you go ahead, Angel. I don’t feel right gawking around in a church when I don’t believe in any of it.” Crowley said; he didn’t begrudge people who did, but it just wasn’t his thing.

“But, it’s not just a place of worship, dear, it’s a historical site.”

“Eh, based on religion though. Look, don’t worry about it, Angel, you go appreciate it.”

“Alright, if you’re sure,” Aziraphale conceded, moving over to stroke his cheek and kiss him affectionately, “See you in a little while, darling.”

He could feel the reverence in the place as soon as he stepped through the door, the stained glass portrait of St Margaret herself, dappled blue and purple light on the floor. He bowed his head as he stepped into the nave, a few wooden benches lining the aisles with one or two other tourists sitting on them chatting. At the front under the chancel arch was a little altar, adorned with a beautiful Celtic cross on a blue altar cloth, sitting below the stained glass window of St Andrew.

Taking a seat, he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together in front of him, silently praying to God, thanking Them for Their benevolence, for blessing his and Crowley’s relationship with happiness, and asking Them to continue to keep Crowley safe and loved. He prayed for God to give love and hope to those in need, and to guide him on how to do so too. Finally, he asked for forgiveness for his transgressions, and that he may learn from his mistakes to be a better person. It wasn’t a formal prayer, no set words from the Church, but, like his Pastor had rightly preached, it was from the heart and soul, a private talk with his God. With an ‘Amen’ and a sign of the cross, he opened his eyes and stood up again, offering a smile to the few people who had evidently been staring at him as he prayed. With a final look around, taking in the windows displaying St Columba, St Ninian, and William Wallace, he took one of the free booklets on St Margaret, and slipped another twenty pounds into the collection box on his way out.

The light hurt his eye after the dimness inside the chapel, and with a hand above his eyes he looked for Crowley on the little platform, but he was nowhere to be found. Not sure where he could have gone to, Aziraphale moved to the courtyard outside the Scottish War Memorial building, sitting on an outcropping rock and hoping that Crowley would see him from whichever direction. He was halfway through the pamphlet when he heard Crowley call for him, some tourists scowling at his loud tone.

“Aziraphale!” he said again, jogging over to him, and Aziraphale noted he was carrying a heavy looking plastic bag, “Sorry, Angel, thought I’d be quicker, but the queue was massive.”

“No worries, darling, I was quite enjoying the sunshine,” he smiled, standing and peering into the proffered bag, “What have you been up to?”

“Well, I enjoyed the view for a bit,” he said, “But I remembered seeing the Whiskey shop on the map and couldn’t resist. And look,” Crowley pulled a paper bag out, “Coffee aged in Whiskey Barrels! I just had to try it. And for you,” he put the package back and pulled out a metal tin, “Whiskey fudge! From Tobermory, as well.”

“Oh, that looks scrumptious, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, taking the lid off the tin and popping a square into his mouth, “Mmm, oh, sweet with that hint of smokiness. I like that,” he took another one before closing the box and shoving it back in the bag, “I trust you got some actual whiskey too?”

“Who do you take me for, Angel? Of course I did,” he shook the bag and there was the sound of clinking glass, “I couldn’t decide between a few, so I just bought all three,” Crowley switched the bag to his other hand, and then took Aziraphale’s in his own, “How was the chapel?”

“It was wonderful. You would have enjoyed the stained glass windows,” he said, as they made their way to the Crown Square.

“I could see them from the outside; they were pretty impressive. Probably better with the light coming through though.”

“Oh, yes, the whole atmosphere was so sacred and peaceful, even if some of the tourists were a little too chatty. I think they were a bit bemused by my praying.”

“Imagine praying in a church, the cheek!” Crowley said sarcastically, then after a beat looked at Aziraphale a little lost, “Uh, did you have a good pray then? I mean, it was... ok?”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand, appreciative of his attempt at supporting him, “It was.”

“Sorry, that was probably invasive. I’ve just never really known anyone who does the whole praying thing.”

“It’s perfectly alright, darling. A lot of people’s prayers are private, but I don’t mind sharing with you,” Aziraphale smiled, “I just thanked Them for our happiness, and asked Them to look out for you.”

“Oh,” Crowley’s cheeked reddened, and he looked a little stunned, “I- ah, no-one’s ever prayed for me before. Not- not a nice prayer anyway. Usually it’s the typical ‘I’ll pray for your immortal soul because I don’t agree with your life choices’ deal.”

Aziraphale grinned, “Well, I can promise this _was_ a nice one.”

“You know, even though I don’t believe in God, the fact that you do and would think of _me_ while praying, it’s, well, I appreciate it, is all.”

They stopped just outside the memorial, in front of the lion statue, and Aziraphale kissed him softly.

They toured the rest of the castle hand in hand, admiring the artwork in the War Memorial and the splendour of the Great Hall, exploring the majesty of the Royal Palace and the impressive Honours of Scotland. The vaults were down a series of steep steps which Aziraphale was not keen on descending; he could see how excited Crowley was about it though, and instead suggested the he go alone while Aziraphale visited the Tartan Weaving Mill just outside of the Castle. As much as Aziraphale loved tartan, his family was English through and through and it felt odd to get a kilt or a personalised tartan, and instead he just chose a few bowties in the colours he liked, a variation of the Black Watch tartan, an icy blue and green Elsa pattern, and, taking Crowley’s advice, a lovely Rose Red tartan. He got Crowley a silver buckled belt like his usual snake themed one, only the buckle was flat silver with a carved Celtic snake pattern.

Crowley was waiting outside for him, and with a peck on the cheek they headed back to the hotel, each of them enthusing about the things they’d seen on their respective tours on the walk back.

* * *

After their heavy lunch and long afternoon, they decided to freshen up a little and sample some of the afternoon tea on offer. The room was beautiful, soft olive and navy chairs and white tableclothed tables all on the polished wooden floor, a chandelier hanging from the glass dome ceiling. Aziraphale admired the gorgeous wallpaper as he took a seat, a monochrome landscape scene spread across all the walls, only broken by ornate pillars.

The meal was lovely, dainty finger sandwiches with bold exciting flavours, mini tarts and choux buns and financiers bursting with summer fruit flavours, and glass teapot filled with rich caramelly Cloud Tea. Crowley even ate a whole plate of the cucumber and crowdie sandwiches and enjoyed a pot of Genmaicha to himself.

While Aziraphale was still finishing off the last of his raspberry cheesecake, Crowley was on his phone trying to see what they could do with the rest of the day; of course, if there wasn’t anything else to do it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship to stay in bed all evening.

“Huh,” Crowley said, resting his chin against his hand.

“What is it dear?”

“Debating your happiness over my own boredom.”

Aziraphale frowned, “Are you bored, darling?”

Crowley looked up from his phone, “What? No, Angel, no, I’m having a great time,” he took Aziraphale’s hand across the table, “It’s just, they’re showing Hamlet tonight at the theatre down the road.”

“Oh, but darling, that sounds marvellous.”

“See, I knew you’d like it,” Crowley smiled, “But, ah, Hamlet is so depressing. I much prefer the funny ones.”

“Well, I’m sure we can see something else. You’ve been ever so good to me today, indulging my fuddy-duddy ways.”

“I don’t think anyone, at all, has used the word ‘fuddy-duddy’ in the last fifty years, Angel,” he said, “And you know I don’t mind, Aziraphale, I like just being with you, wherever.”

Aziraphale stoked his thumb across the back of Crowley’s hand, “That is lovely, my dear boy, but I don’t want you to be bored.”

“I won’t be _bored_ , per se. I mean, it’s watchable. Just not my first choice,” Aziraphale didn’t look convinced so Crowley added, “You can make it up to me tomorrow, Angel. The botanic gardens here are supposed to be the best in the world.”

“Well, if you’re certain,” Aziraphale said, “But only on the condition that we doing whatever you like tomorrow, ok? And you can have a lie in too for being so generous.”

“How kind,” Crowley grinned, pressing a kiss to his fingers, sweet with icing sugar.

They weren’t selling tickets on the website this late but told patrons to call the box office instead; being so close to the theatre and with the show starting in half an hour, they decided to take the short walk to the Festival Theatre and ask in person once they’d finished their afternoon tea. There weren’t that many crowds, surprisingly, most of the audience arriving early to get their seats, and Aziraphale was able to easily get the attention of an attendant stationed at the doors.

“Hello!” Aziraphale said brightly, sidling up to them with Crowley lurking behind.

“Hello, sir, welcome to the Festival Theatre, do you have a ticket booked for tonight?”

“Ah, well, that’s what I wanted to ask about. We haven’t made a booking, but we were hoping there might be a seat or two free?”

“Alright, and have you signed up for the stand-by ticket mailing list?”

“Uh, no, I don’t believe so?”

“Well usually stand-by and return tickets will go to those in the mailing list first, however we did have a large group cancellation tonight, so I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t guarantee anything, unfortunately,” they said, “If you and your friend could-“

“Oh, we’re not friends,” Aziraphale interrupted, “We’re actually- um, we’re... ahem. Not friends.”

The attendant blinked, “Uh, alright then. If you and your acquaintance could wait here, I’ll just check with the box office.”

“That’s not-“ Aziraphale began, but they had already left, “Bother.”

He could feel Crowley staring at him intently, “Not friends, eh?”

“Oh, you know what I mean!” Aziraphale pouted, “We’ve never actually discussed this, you know. What we would prefer to be called.”

“I guess we haven’t,” Crowley frowned, “You did call me your lover, once, though.”

“I can’t call you that in public, darling! It has such lewd connotations. And I feel it doesn’t encompass the emotional side to our relationship.”

That and it was one letter too close to a word neither of them were brave enough to say to each other.

“Alright, not lover then. Hmm,” Crowley fished through his brain, “Well, there’s the classic ‘boyfriend’?”

“Oh, much too juvenile.”

“Manfriend?”

Aziraphale glowered at him for that one, “No.”

“Significant other?”

He considered it. “It feels a little impersonal.”

“Uh, paramour?” Crowley tried, at a loss, “Actually no, I boycott that one.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Fuck, I don’t know, Angel. ‘Companion’?”

“Oh, not that either, it reminds me of those arrangements between a lady and a woman of a lower class. Like in Rebecca.” Aziraphale sighed, “Can you see my dilemma, dear?”

“This is a bit trickier than I thought, yes. Hmm, the only other one is ‘partner’, but is that not too ambiguous too?”

“It’s probably the one I hate the least. Partner,” he felt the shape of the words on his tongue, “Part-ner. ‘This is Crowley, my partner’. Hmm.”

Crowley’s cheeks pinked, “Ah, that’s, um- I like that one.”

“You do?”

“When you say it in context it’s, uh, it’s quite nice.”

“Is it? Perhaps you could...?” he looked at him beseechingly.

“’My partner, Aziraphale’,” Crowley said, a growing smile on his face.

“Oh, I like that too,” Aziraphale tilted his face up and Crowley met him with a kiss.

“Ahem, gentlemen?” a voice interrupted them, and they looked up a little guiltily at being caught. It was the attendant, who was looking at them, eyebrow raised, “The box office says they have two free seats in the Upper Circle, would that be of interest to you?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, smoothing down his shirt, “That would be lovely thank you.”

“Alright, if you’d like to follow me we’ll get your tickets sorted and take payment.”

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale and Crowley followed them through to the tills, and when they were close, Aziraphale spoke up, “Ah, just to clarify, when I said we weren’t friends, what I meant was that we aren’t _just_ friends.”

“Alright...” the attendant said, clearly not that interested in the ins and outs of their relationship, not that that deterred Aziraphale.

Crowley just rolled his eyes fondly.

“What I mean to say is that Crowley is my partner,” Aziraphale finished firmly.

“Uh, ok then,” they replied, a little bemused but thankful they at least weren’t the shouty type of customer, “Ok, so that’s two tickets, Upper Circle, that will be one hundred and four pounds and sixty four pence for you and your _partner_. Will you be paying by cash or card?”

Crowley slid his sleek black card from his back pocket, “Card, please. And can you add a programme to that?”

“Sure, that’ll be an extra five pounds.”

Crowley passed the playbill over to his partner as he typed in his pin, “Here you go, Angel.”

“Oh, darling, thank you,” Aziraphale beamed at him, clutching the book tightly, touched that Crowley instinctively knew it was something he wanted.

Crowley plucked the tickets up from the counter and thanked the attendant.

Even after their awkward encounter, Crowley couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed at Aziraphale’s enthusiasm for their relationship; in fact if he didn’t have a carefully crafted persona to live up to he probably would have been peppering the word partner into every sentence too – ‘I’ll pay for me and my partner’, ‘can I get a playbill for my partner?’, ‘can you believe that this veritable Angel wants _me_ to be his partner?’. As it was, he placed his hand at the small of Aziraphale’s back and guided him to the auditorium doors while the blonde excitedly flicked through the programme.

The seats weren’t that bad for being last minute, only three rows from the front of the circle and a reasonable view of the stage. Aziraphale wiggled in his seat beside him, linking his hands together across his stomach and twiddling his thumbs, while Crowley crossed one long leg over the other and rested his elbow on the armrest between them to be closer. They’d gotten in rather later than they usually did for the theatre, and so their pre-show speculation was cut short at the dimming of the lights and intro music swelling.

Aziraphale tapped him eagerly on the arm and shushed him while the curtain went up to reveal the sentinels at their post at Elsinore. It wasn’t Crowley’s favourite of plays, but he had to give it to Shakespeare that introducing a ghost in the first five minutes was a great move to make it less dull. He could feel Aziraphale’s enjoyment though, hearing his little gasps of delight when there was a line he particularly liked, and more often than not he found his gaze drifting to his enraptured face.

Crowley didn’t know if Horatio and Hamlet were hamming it up on purpose, but each line they said to each other was incredibly flirtatious, and he raised his eyebrow at the way Horatio’s actor called him ‘sweet lord’, and Hamlet’s all too sincere assertation that “I will wear him in my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart as I do thee”. Still, it’s not like original text had any less homoromantic subtext.

It was Ophelia he liked the most, so hopeful that Hamlet would love her even against the words of Laertes and Polonius, and then caught up in the madness in the Kingdom culminating in her death. Shakespeare really didn’t do her character justice. The actress playing her was probably the best of the troupe, the emotion in each line and the way she expertly acted grief-stricken clearly visible even from their rather distant seats.

All in all, when he thought about it, the whole play was bonkers; the sheer dramatism of the play scene, the King fleeing from the room as if that wouldn’t be immediately suspicious, Hamlet _not_ killing him when he had the chance, then in a complete one eighty just stabbing who he thought was Claudius through the curtain. Then when Hamlet returns to Denmark from England, freed by pirates no less, he digs up his old court jester, gets into a brawl with Laertes, duels Osric despite all reason, the Queen accidentally poisons herself, Laertes stabs Hamlet with a poisoned blade, gets stabbed himself, and then Hamlet kills the King and dies. All ending with Fortinbras arriving at Elsinore, finding the whole royal family dead, and a crying man hugging the dead prince and claiming that the Norwegian is now king.

“Oh, wasn’t that marvellous!” Aziraphale waxed lyrical as they spilled out of the theatre, “He was very good, wasn’t he? Hamlet’s actor, I mean. The way he delivered the ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy was masterful!”

“I preferred ‘that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling-clouts’ line,”

Aziraphale huffed, “You would.”

“I told you, Angel, I prefer the funny ones,” he said, walking hand in hand with Aziraphale along the dark cobbled streets, “Though I have to admit I did like the whole flower scene with Ophelia; being so bold as to give the King columbines that represent faithfulness in wedlock. Absolutely genius levels of mockery, there.”

“She was ever so good, wasn’t she?” he replied, “And a very good singer, too.”

“Yeah, I could easily see her moving onto musicals.”

“Was she a soprano, do you think? She’d suit Cosette or Christine Daae very well, I think.”

“Mmm, I’d like to see her as Sophie Mamma Mia. Give her something happy to sing.”

“I didn’t know you were an ABBA fan!” Aziraphale said delightedly, “All your music seems so broody.”

Crowley scoffed, “I’d hardly call Queen _broody._ And ‘course I like ABBA. Who doesn’t?”

“How come you’ve never played it in you car? You’ve subjected me to all that bebop when we could have been listening to ABBA, you foul fiend.”

“You never asked!” Crowley laughed, “I’m sure I’ve got ABBA Gold in the glove compartment, we can listen to it next time, if you like. Though I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have ‘Hole In Your Soul’ on.”

“Oh good Lord, that’s your favourite? What about ‘Dancing Queen’? Or ‘Take a Chance on Me’?”

“I like them well enough, just ‘Hole In Your Soul’ is clearly superior.”

“’Fernando’, Crowley, ‘ _Fernando’?_ ” Aziraphale continued, distressed.

“Again, it’s good, just not as good.”

“I can’t believe it. My partner has no taste.”

“You can talk, Angel, you don’t even like ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’!”

Aziraphale sniffed, “That’s hardly a valid comparison.”

They bickered good-naturedly for the short walk back to the hotel, along the moonlit railway bridge with other enthusiastic theatre goers bustling around them. A few others must have been staying at the hotel too, for once they got into the foyer they were roped into what Crowley considered a rather awkward conversation with two women. They were nice enough, a couple visiting from Accra, but Crowley had never liked small talk and left the bulk of it up to Aziraphale. They got off first, the women apparently staying in one of the castle view rooms to celebrate their anniversary, and Crowley gave them a friendly smile as he ushered a still chatting Aziraphale into the corridor.

It was a quiet evening once they got back into the room, both of them quietly moving in tandem with each other while they prepared for bed, content with the comfortable silence between them. Aziraphale tucked into bed first, nestled with the sheets pulled up to his chin and looking adorable as he watched Crowley putter about, cleaning his face and moisturising his skin.

The summer night was rather warm so, like Aziraphale, Crowley settled for sleeping in his boxers. He smiled as he approached the bed, not resisting his urge to kiss the tip of Aziraphale’s cute little nose and then his plush lips before snuggling down next to him. Even with the warm weather they stayed huddled close together on the bed, kicking the duvet half-off rather than moving apart.

* * *

There was a chill in the air, the heatwave they had a day prior extinguished by a front of cool air pushing south from the North Sea, bringing with it a biting wind and spitting rain. Aziraphale had settled into a pastel blue mac with a turtleneck underneath, the oversized brown wool pooling snugly under his rounded chin, and Crowley was rather desperate to bury his face there and make a nest. Instead, they walked with Crowley’s arm wrapped around his waist and hand itching to slip under the jumper to heat up on the furnace that was Aziraphale’s skin.

The Botanic Garden was deceptively far compared to the rest of the rather compact tourist zone, a good mile out downhill, past some very posh and lovely looking houses, over a quaint little bridge, and along a long tree lined lane. It was already late in the morning, Aziraphale true to his word had let Crowley sleep in while he had read through his copy of The Memoirs of Owain Glyndŵr, and they decided to eat first, a heavy brunch that would tide them over until Crowley’s restaurant surprise that evening. Aziraphale tried to parse Crowley’s choice of Nicoise salad for clues as to the restaurant in particular they’d be dining at, but soon gave up in favour of enjoying his own venison dish, dabbing up the creamed leeks and gratin potato with the puff pastry wrap. 

Strolling through the expansive outdoor garden, they passed through the arboretum, woodland gardens, and the rock garden, looping around the Caledonian hall by the peat garden, and admired the ducks by the pond. They made their way to infamous glasshouses, Aziraphale marvelling at the architecture of the palm house, towering arched windows set in sandstone, leading up to the curved glass roof.

Heading inside, Crowley tried to contain his excitement at the array of tropical plants he could only dream of cultivating at home. Aziraphale much preferred flowers, but he knew that Crowley had a soft spot for ferns, and palms, and other non-flowering plants, the bulk of his own collection made up of them. Looking up, the broad leaves of the ferns arched over them like a feathered wing, and Aziraphale felt oddly comforted by it. He brushed a finger over the curl of an emerging koru, smiling over at Crowley studiously examining a red palm frond.

Moving further into the maze of greenhouses, they found the large lily pond, fish darting through the water below and giant water lilies like stepping-stones across the surface; Crowley had a strange compulsion to follow wherever their path would take him. There were more tropical plants here too, bananas, plantains, and cocoa, and the humidity had Aziraphale pulling at his collar and shucking off his coat. The orchid house was dense with foliage, the air sweet and cycads dominating the beds. Giving up all pretences of not enjoying himself, Crowley practically dragged Aziraphale by the hand over to the green fan of leaves, open to display its pinkish red cone.

“Cycads are amazing,” Crowley said excitedly, “During the Jurassic Era you couldn’t move for them, but now there are only a few hundred species left, and a lot of them are endangered” he ushered him across to another plant, this time the cone yellow and squatter, “They don’t reproduce like normal plants, either. One plant, like this one, I think, is female, and the other is male, and unless they find each other at just the right time they can’t be pollinated.”

“How fascinating,” Aziraphale said, “And rather sweet. It’s nice, to find someone at just the right time.”

Crowley groaned, “Don’t do that, don’t make plants romantic.”

“I rather think they do that themselves. Roses, peonies, tulips...cycads.”

“Alright, alright, you’ve made your point,” he grumbled, but let Aziraphale kiss him on the cheek under a drooping Jade Vine.

They reached the centre of the houses next, a forest of tree ferns that could easily be mistaken for Rangitoto or Tiritiri Matangi, the only thing missing the call of the Tui bird, instead the song the gentle trickle of the artificial stream. Crowley was never a believer in paradise, but this would be something like his, here on Earth with Aziraphale beneath the canopy of fern fronds. They stayed there the longest, doing at least two tours of the place, admiring the colourful sori and sitting serenely on a rock beside a small waterfall blanketed with ferns for a lovely half hour.

Heat hit them as soon as they stepped through to the Rainforest greenhouse, even hotter than the other houses had been, and Crowley loosened another button of his shirt. Everything was in bloom, exotic climbers framing the walls and trailing down to another pond, carp popping up to the surface before darting away just as quickly. There was a familiar scent in the air too, and soon Aziraphale recognised it as the sickly sweet smell of pineapple, the fruit ripening on its stem amongst its brethren bromeliads. Venturing to the back corner, the smell changed, this time cloying and unpleasant, the birthwort protruding it’s fly-inducing scent in hopes of pollination, and they both hurried away to the Temperate Lands House.

Dipping under the willow, past more climbers, and flowering begonias and hedychiums, they stopped on the walkway to peer down at the plants on the lower level, Crowley pointing here and there at flowers he found particularly fascinating. Aziraphale thought he might invest in a succulent for the shop as they enjoyed the mimicked desert landscape of the arid lands house, aloe and agave between spiny cacti. He liked the shape of the cacti, the rigidity, the harshness topped with a delicate pink flower; it reminded him of Crowley, just a bit.

The carnivorous plants in the Montane Tropics house fascinated Crowley, Venus flytraps and sundews, and the sun pitchers which stood prim and proper, leaves curled together like the clasped hands of Aziraphale; he didn’t want to think too deeply on the metaphor, because while Aziraphale was certainly attractive and caught Crowley in his orbit, he didn’t think his intention was quite so nefarious as the plants to insects.

In the Lowlands tropic house people were crowding around the legendary titan arum, the corpse flower; it had been a blooming year last year, and, while they had missed the flowering, it had been pollinated and was now bearing it’s tower of red berry-like fruits, a sight just as rare, if not as pungent, as the flowering itself. Some of the berries had been harvested, to be propagated or for research, leaving some of the white seed cylinder exposed.

“Is this another metaphor?” Crowley asked with a smirk.

“What?”

“Another romance plant. Dormant for years until it begins to bloom, culminating in a flower with a terrible scent, only to wither within a day, and lucky to bear any fruit?”

“I- I don’t know how to unpack that. What exactly is the smell in this context?”

“Eh, metaphorical disappointment? Bitterness? Uh, a literal corpse? Take your pick.”

Aziraphale scrunched up his nose, “Well, that is rather morbid.”

“Hey, it happens, Angel.”

“Yes, well, that’s hardly romantic. In this case I think a plant is a plant,” Aziraphale was quiet for moment then frowned, “That wasn’t a comment on us, was it?”

“What? No! Angel,” he wrapped his arm around him, “I was just teasing. I don’t think it represents anything, and certainly wouldn’t represent us.”

“Sorry, just- habit,” he said, slightly embarrassed by his insecurity.

“No need to apologise, Angel. Joke didn’t land well.”

Aziraphale smiled softy at him, “Like a lead balloon.”

“Ha! You remember that?” Crowley beamed, “Not my best opener, I must admit.”

“And yet here we are,” Aziraphale smiled, pressing against his shoulder lightly.

“Here we are.”

They were quiet for a bit, admiring the foliage of the tropics further.

Then, as they made their way out to the Chilean terrace, “Apple tree,” Aziraphale said.

“Huh?”

“That’s what represents us. Strong, sturdy, lovely blossoms in the spring.”

“Yeah, an apple tree. Been trying to grow one actually,” Crowley smiled back, “And, bonus, apples are delicious.”

Crowley, being an amateur florist, knew exactly what apple blossoms were symbolic of.

Aziraphale, being a historian, knew exactly what apple trees were historically symbolic of.

Neither of them, being softly, gently, quietly in love, mentioned it.

* * *

The exterior of the restaurant did not look like somewhere that typically did fine dining. In fact it looked the cross between a small café, butcher’s shop, and souvenir shop, the fronting painted a pleasant light blue and with a Scandinavian inspired animal themed window covering. The was an inviting glow from inside though, and, with the coldness of the night creeping in, they hurried through the door.

It was as small as a café too, maybe able to seat ten small tables at a real push, but rather than crowded it felt intimate. They were lead to a table near the back, and Aziraphale pointed to the tartan seat covering with delight.

Their server explained the process, the fact that there was no set menu for the restaurant, only a tasting menu based on the harvested items listed on the board above that changed daily. Today’s offering was presented to them on white cardstock, the ingredients for each of the six courses listed with their wine pairings, but no other descriptions.

“So what do you think?” Crowley asked once the server had gone.

“Oh, Crowley, this is so exciting!” he beamed, “I’ve never been to a place quite like this.”

“Yeah? I wasn’t sure you’d enjoy not being able to choose.”

“I do enjoy choice, darling, but there is something quite lovely about only knowing the ingredients and not the dish. Especially when its Michelin Star!”

“To be honest it’s not exactly what I expected,” Crowley said, “The website made it seem more of a couples spot.”

“Well, there are a few other couples dear boy. And it’s close. Intimate,” he took Crowley’s hand across the table.

“I thought there might at least be a candle. I’d even take one of those single roses in a tiny vase.”

“I don’t mind, darling. I rather like being able to look at you without having to dodge a dancing flame or move a vase out of the way while we try to talk.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he rested his chin on his other hand, while tracing a finger across Aziraphale's palm, “Maybe we could have the whole candlelit thing another time. I saw they had some nice ones in the bathroom.”

“Oh darling, a romantic candlelit bath; do let’s!” Aziraphale sighed longingly, “If only I had my gramophone, I have some lovely records at home; we could listen to _Salut d’Amour_ , or _Cavalleria Rusticana’s Intermezzo,_ or _Ombra ma fu_.”

“Lucky I happen to have a handy device with the world’s music at my fingertips.”

“It’ll do in a pinch, but you must know everything sounds better on a record.”

“Holy shit, there’s one musical opinion we actually have in common.”

“Just as I was starting to worry you had no taste,” Aziraphale grinned, “I’m glad you have some sense darling.”

Their server brought out three small dishes each, laying the mix of plates and bowls between them; beetroot rolls filled with ewe’s curd, and redcurrant gel that turned Aziraphale’s fingertips pink; fish tartare in a crispy tart case, layered with dashi jelly, apple puree, and apple balls, which Crowley took one bite of and shuddered from the bitterness of it; and a mini dauphinoise bowl, topped with chives and charred pancetta.

“Christ, Angel, these are only the starters,” Crowley groaned, studying the menu.

“Well I should hope so dear, they are rather small.”

“Sma- Aziraphale, this is more than I usually eat in a day, never mind one sitting.”

“I’ll gladly relieve you off any leftovers you might have...”

“Truly a selfless sacrifice on your part,” Crowley said dryly, pushing his plate over.

“Waste not want not,” Aziraphale trilled, forking the remaining roll and popping it in his mouth with a pleased hum, while Crowley rolled his eyes fondly.

The real first course was a pasta dish, three of the sheep milk agnolotti topped with wild garlic, parmesan, and whey, all floating in an aromatic consommé that Crowley particularly enjoyed, washed down with a citrusy glass of Timorasso wine. The bread course was not what Aziraphale had been expecting at all, the dish more like a Chinese steam bun topped with the confit chicken, crispy onion, and truffle, but it was certainly better than the usual plain bread and butter route most restaurants went for.

Next was a fish course, but what fish Aziraphale wasn’t exactly sure. It was the catch of the day, and a white fish, but other than that and the fact it definitely wasn’t mackerel, he rather had no idea. He quite thought it might be sea bass, but Crowley was convinced it was turbot. Either way it was paired nicely with muscles and a creamy sauce, though the samphire made it a tad too salty. Crowley wasn’t the biggest fan of the fourth course – he preferred to watch ducks than to eat them – but tried a bit of the carrot with the fig jam before sliding the plate over to Aziraphale, and instead savoured his pinot noir.

The last two courses were desserts, and Aziraphale was mildly disappointed in the lack of chocolate and decadence. They were very light dishes, a blood orange, yoghurt, and chamomile sort of sweet salad, and then a pretty pink rhubarb gelato with a hibiscus cheesecake ball, covered in sorrel leaves. Different, but very palette cleansing.

After savouring another glass of wine each, Crowley paid with a swipe of his card and they made their way back along to the hotel, the sun still low in sky despite it being after seven. When they were close to the bridge, Crowley stopped Aziraphale by a lamppost and told him to wait there for a moment, then ducked into a patisserie with pink signage and a gorgeous selection of cakes in the window.

Crowley presented him with a pink cake box when he returned, flipping open the lid to reveal two delicious looking cake slices, vanilla sponges sandwiched between praline buttercream and ganache, topped with a chocolate layer and more buttercream, “Don’t think I didn’t see you disappointed with the dessert, Angel.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale fawned, swiping a finger through the buttercream and licking it off.

“I almost got you the Chocolate Gateaux, but I know how much you like praline,” Crowley explained, passing the box to Aziraphale and fishing a disposable fork he’d picked up from the bakery out of his pocket.

“I do, darling, I really do,” he said, starry-eyed, taking the little wooden fork and cutting himself a bite, “Oh, this is delightful! Here, try some,” he held out a forkful for Crowley, who bent down to slide the tines between his teeth.

“Mmm, nutty,” Crowley said, licking some cream from off the corner of his lip.

He folded the box closed, “Ah, this cake, a glass of wine, a warm bath, you. What a lovely evening we have in store.”

Crowley kissed him gently under the light of the setting sun.

* * *

Cake box and wine bottles empty, they were sitting together in the lavender-scented bath water, candles glowing around them, and a playlist of classical music sounding out from Crowley’s phone. Aziraphale was leaning back into Crowley’s chest, nestled between his legs, with the redhead’s warm wiry arms clasped around him. Crowley sighed happily and nuzzled into Aziraphale’s hair.

This was exactly what he hoped this holiday would be like.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked.

“Mmm, yes darling?”

“I was wondering if... well... could you...?”

He leaned back and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s jaw, “What is it, my dear?”

“I think I wouldn’t mind if you, uh, if you wanted to that is, call me by my name. Just... now, while we’re like this.”

“What do mean?”

Aziraphale could feel him swallow, “I mean, we’re happy now, yeah? Together. And- and I don’t have too many happy memories with my name, my real one. And, well, now might be a nice one to have. If you like?”

Aziraphale reached back to caress Crowley’s cheek, tilting his face to kiss at his neck, “My dear, dear Anthony.”

Crowley shivered beneath him, “Angel.”

“I know it might be hard, my dear sweet Anthony, but whenever you think of your name, I hope you think of how you feel in this moment. Of being warm, and safe, and cared for. Of being a wonderful, beautiful, talented man.”

“Of you,” Crowley said, “I know I’ll think of you.”

Aziraphale stroked his cheek again, then kissed him deeply, sloshing water over the edge of the bath as he turned onto his front.

“Mmm, ah- ow,” Crowley groaned, pulling back from the kiss and shifting his leg sending Aziraphale slipping to his knee, “Sorry, Angel, my leg was pinching. You good?”

“Ha, yes dear, perhaps the bath is a little small for this.”

“The bed certainly is softer.”

Aziraphale kissed him again lightly, “Come on then, my dear,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and Crowley shivered at the sudden rush of air from the water lowering.

Leaning forward to rest his arm on the edge of the bath, Crowley ogled Aziraphale’s arse as he bent over to pick up a towel, “I’ll take that one,” he said cheekily, taking the towel from a put-out Aziraphale’s hand, before standing and drying his hair with it. He didn’t miss where Aziraphale’s eyes lingered, and grinned toothily, “Well? Are you going to pick up another one.”

Aziraphale squinted at him, trying to work out his game, “Alright...”

As he bent to pick up the other towel, Crowley hummed appreciatively, “What a marvellous view.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scowled, turning around to face him, “I should have known, you beast.”

Crowley stepped out of the bath, “Not my fault you have the sexiest arse in history.”

“I rather think that’s an exaggeration,” Aziraphale said with a blush.

“Na, s’the truth.” Pulling Aziraphale closer, Crowley took his soft, plump arse in his hands and _squeezed_.

“Oh- you- you fiend,” Aziraphale squealed, half-heartedly pushing him away as Crowley kissed his neck, “You’re all wet!”

Crowley shook his hair out and swayed them around.

“You’re like a dog, you wretched thing.”

“Grff, grff,” he imitated, licking his neck once, then burst out laughing, “Ok, yeah, that’s enough of that.”

“You silly darling,” Aziraphale said with a smile, “How is it that despite the fact the you just licked my neck I still find you unbelievably charming?”

“Mmm, could be that I plan on giving you a spectacular orgasm in the next hour?”

“Is that so? It just so happens that that was my plan too.”

Crowley grinned at him, moving to link their hands together, “Look at us, so in sync.”

“We do fit together rather well, don’t we?”

“If we move this to the bedroom we can test all the ways we fit together,” Crowley tugged him towards the door, Aziraphale following delightedly.

* * *

They checked out as late as was allowed, after wrestling with fitting all of Aziraphale’s purchases into their bags, some of them inevitably spilling over into Crowley’s, and a rather lovely last breakfast. Crowley had, upon Aziraphale’s insistence, pre-booked the train seats home shortly after they had arrived, and so now they both settled into their gloriously reserved seats, not having to worry about playing musical chairs.

It seemed quicker somehow, not so concerned with experiencing the view for the first time and a sleepy haze over them as they leaned against each other. Aziraphale tucked into the meal he’d bought at Waverley’s Marksies, a Moroccan style couscous with chargrilled chicken and a mini pack of macarons that he liked infinitely more than their outbound journey.

They were delayed a little outside of York, but before long the train was pulling into Kings Cross Station, Crowley walking even more serpentine than usual trying to stretch out his cramped legs.

“Christ, it’s good to be home,” Crowley whooped, dodging the queue for the Harry Potter photo op, “In the words of Stephen Sondheim, ‘There’s no place like London’.”

Aziraphale frowned, “I do believe that song doesn’t quite match your sentiments, dear.”

“Eh, the start of it does. That kid – whatever is name is, long hair, bit obsessed with the girl – anyway, he starts it off as a welcome home. Not my fault old Sweeney wanted to be all grim about it.”

“If you say so darling,” Aziraphale squeezed his hand fondly.

There wasn’t a discussion about it, but they ended up walking to the bookshop, Crowley occasionally stopping to help Aziraphale’s case up the curb. Aziraphale had grown a little quieter the closer they had got to the shop, but Crowley merely put it down to him being tired from their trip.

Then, after they had barely even set foot in the bookshop, Aziraphale turned to look at him, his face solemn, “Crowley,” he said cautiously, “I think you should leave.”

Crowley looked up, confusion and hurt clouding over his face, “What? I mean- if you- if that’s what you want...?”

He shifted his bag to his other hand, palms growing sweaty. Had he said something? Done something? They’d been quieter on the journey back, yes, but he thought they were just tired – was it something about last night? Had Aziraphale come to his senses and decided Crowley wasn’t worth it after all, wasn’t darling or dear or sweet?

Aziraphale stepped a little closer, fiddling with his ring, and said, “It’s just that we haven’t so much as thought of baking all week, and I really do need to practice with the short time we have left, and I rather think if you’re here I’d be too distracted – pleasantly so, I must say – to get anything done.”

“Fuck- Angel, God, you made it sound like I’d done something terrible!” Crowley said, clutching his chest in relief.

“What? No, of course not, I doubt you could. Did I really word it that poorly?”

“I mean, you could have started with the explanation rather than the ominous command.”

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear boy. Rest assured I would love to have you here longer,” he almost let the word forever slip from his lips, “But I would so miss having our weekends together if I was to leave through not practicing.”

“I doubt that would happen, Angel, your bakes are always amazing,” he shifted the bag again, “Um, well, I best be off then. See you tomorrow?”

“Perhaps a little later, this time? Closer to seven.”

Crowley felt a bit put out, and then guilty for feeling so. He knew Aziraphale was more than entitled to some time alone, but even with the not inaccurate excuse, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat dismissed. Normally their Friday afternoon drives were long and happy, stopping off at a restaurant or café and drawing out the journey like it was something special, so wanting to leave so late had him again scrambling to think if he really had done something wrong, despite Aziraphale’s protestations.

“Seven? Uh, if you like. Alright,” he cursed himself for not being able to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He teetered forward on his toes, debating whether a kiss would be welcome or not, but in the end just shot him a strained smile and said, “See you then,” and turned to leave.

Aziraphale watched him go with a frown. He truly hadn’t wanted Crowley to go. If it were up to him they would probably not have left Edinburgh for another week, but he still had the Bake Off to think of. It had been a little goal of his, just to apply, and then a dream to actually get in, and even with his newfound partner, he didn’t want to just throw the opportunity away. He already felt guilty for squandering the week away, not even touching a mixing bowl the whole time. He remembered in casting meeting a girl, not long out of university, who had been applying year after year and was so excited to be shortlisted at last, so optimistic that she’d get through. Aziraphale had won the place instead, something about his TV presence being better over her nervous blushes and flubbed words. It wouldn’t be right to not put his all into it when someone who wanted it so desperately missed out because of him.

But looking at Crowley’s retreating back, his shoulders dropped, and thinking back to the way his eyes had lost their sparkle at being turned away... Was it right to dismiss his partner in favour of baking, of all things? Who said it had to be mutually exclusive? Who said he couldn’t have his cake and eat it by Crowley’s side? Distraction he may be, but how much time would he spend wasting away starting at a timer counting down anyway? Besides, Crowley needed to bake too, so it wasn’t like he’d be bored.

Why was he sending Crowley away when he was the only thing that made baking enjoyable?

Mind made up, he headed down the steps, catching sight of his red hair halfway down the street.

“Crowley wait!” he called out, not quite jogging, but speed walking at least, grabbing his hand before he could go any further, “I, uh, I suppose you don’t _have_ to go right now. If we practice with the pies the prep time isn’t too long, but there’ll be so much between the baking that you can stay another hour or two, perhaps.”

Crowley studied his face, “Angel, if you want to be alone you can say, yeah? Don’t worry about me.”

“No, Crowley, that’s not- I _don’t_ want to be alone. That’s rather the point. We’ve had such a lovely week, but there’s so little time left to bake, and it doesn’t seem fair to enjoy myself with you while I take the Bake Off for granted.”

“Aziraphale, life’s too short to do things you don’t enjoy. We’re old buggers now, I know I don’t want to spend an afternoon being miserable and alone because of some baking show. I mean, I like to bake sure, but I like to bake with you more. Even if we’re not quite as productive.”

“You always see things so wonderfully clearly, darling,” Aziraphale sighed, “Objectively I know all of that, but I just worry. I know that if anything does go wrong this weekend I’ll only blame myself.”

“If it goes wrong, it goes wrong, it’s not the end of the world. Besides, what is it this week? Tudor week? You’ve made hundreds of pies, sweet and savoury so that’s not a problem. A Marchpane cake is just cake with a fancier more disgusting icing, nothing you haven’t done before. And with how historically well read you are I’m willing to bet you’ll be the only one to have heard of whatever technical they pick.”

“Thank you for having so much faith in my abilities dear,” Aziraphale said, smile still a little wobbly, but tried to push his worry down with Crowley’s soothing words, “How about we pop to the shops together? There’s something cathartic about shopping, don’t you think?”

“If it’ll make you feel better, sure,” Crowley said, taking his hand, “Let me just drop my bag back at your place and I’ll make you the best game pie you’ve ever had.”

Later, Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley’s pie was rather delicious. And that his worry about apparently forgetting everything there is to know about baking was rather unfounded after he produced a perfect genoise and sculpted a very attractive looking baked marzipan flag. He felt much, much better than before, laughing at his own poor sculpting of a pig from pastry and at Crowley scrunched up face of disgust as he was convinced to try some marzipan for the first time in years. He had Aziraphale taste test his cake after that, refusing to ever try the icing again.

At one point in the evening Crowley seemed to be hovering, a bit hesitant, like he was trying to ask something but didn’t know how to. Aziraphale suspected he was still worrying about having to leave and, eager to alleviate his worries, he tugged Crowley onto his lap, hugging his waist and kissing at the column of his throat. No more baking was done that night.

They did end up leaving late on Friday, eating bits of Aziraphale’s ham hock pie for lunch, and some Maids of Honour that Aziraphale suspected might be the technical for dessert. Crowley collected the Bentley mid-afternoon and they went for some Greek food at Opso, before finally making the drive up to Newbury.

* * *

The rain was pelting off the top of the tent, roaring so loud the presenters had to yell even louder at the start, and would probably be doing pick-ups before it aired. He could just about hear the task, three hours to make a display of individual savoury pies in a Tudor-like design, and the call to ‘Bake!’ and set about making his pie.

A fair few of the others seemed to be making the pastry first, and Crowley frowned down at his chopping board, wondering if they knew something he didn’t. It wasn’t exactly a recipe he’d practiced much; in fact he had actually only made one of each shape to test the moulds and flavour. Nevertheless, he continued with the filling, chopping up an onion, and slicing the apricots and peeled potato. He swapped the chopping board for the red-coloured one and set to work cubing the chicken thigh meat into bite-sized pieces. Combining the apricot, onion, chicken, and some thyme in a bowl, he set the rest aside, ready to be layered up later.

The judges came over then, surveying his bench with a critical eye.

“Hello Crowley,” the judge said, sounding uncharacteristically chirpy this morning, “What will you be making for us today?”

“Well, my pies are pork with chicken and apricot, which is ready over there, and then just a standard hot water crust pastry, but I’m going to be colouring it.”

“Colour? Interesting. And is that just with food colouring or...?”

“I’m going to use natural ones, each of the six with their own colour.”

“Six? You’ve got your work cut out for you there,” the judge huffed out sceptically, “So what’s your actual design?”

“It’s the six wives of Henry VIII, each one with her own colour and emblem, and alternating oval shapes and pentagon shapes.”

“Oh! For the head pieces they wore?” one of the presenters asked excitedly, and at Crowley’s nod said, “I love it!”

The judge piped up again, “And will you have Henry in the middle?”

Crowley scowled, “Oh, no, absolutely not. He was a misogynistic tyrant who found excuses to murder or imprison his wives in order to pursue other women that he viewed as nothing more than potential breeding machines.”

There was a heavy silence.

“Alright,” one of the presenters tried to raise the mood, “So it’s a celebration of his wives, then?”

“Yes. I think they deserved to be remembered in more than just a repulsive rhyme where their names are not even mentioned.”

“Well, I think it’s lovely,” the quieter judge said with a smile, “Good luck!”

Once they’d left, he moved onto his pastry, which was going to be a task and a half. Boiling up the beetroot, spinach, and red cabbage first, he blitzed them all one by one to release the juices. He sieved the spinach and retained the green juice, setting it and the pureed beetroot aside. There was a little bit more chemistry to turn the red cabbage into blue dye, boiling it for a good twenty minutes, and adding baking soda to the liquid to make the pH alkaline and alter the colour of the flavonoids. The other colours were easier, the squid ink added unchanged, and the saffron and paprika just mixed with a small amount of water.

It was important that the dough was warm when he shaped it or else it was prone to crumbling, and Crowley figured the best way would be to make each coloured pie one by one instead of in one batch. Wanting each emblem to stand out, he made a small batch of uncoloured dough first, quickly rubbing the butter and flours together, while the lard and water boiled. Tipping the fat into the flour, he mixed until it was combined, and kneaded it into a smooth dough.

He shaped each insignia first, wanting to just slide it onto the top once each pie was ready to cook rather than make them as he went. He was lucky he was artistic, the pastry hard enough to shape into something recognisable even with his skill set. Still, he was happy enough with them, and set to work on the main pastry for each pie.

He’d chosen black pastry for Katherine of Aragon, who was often displayed so regally with dark elegant clothes, especially her headdress. One of her most famous portraits had her displayed in her Tudor gable hood, and so Crowley used the pentagonal shaped mould, lining the tin with the rolled out pastry. He spooned in a layer of sausagemeat, then the chicken mix, then potato slices, and finally another layer of sausagemeat, just shy of the top so they were less likely to ooze. He brushed some egg yolk on the rim of the base, and then crimped the dough lid into place and added the shaped pomegranate that was her emblem. Instead of the steam holes in the centre, he delicately poked three around the edges of the lid, equidistant apart.

He had five different timers and his little notebook schedule on the bench, ticking of the first item and setting a timer for fifty minutes as he slid his pie into the oven. It had only taken him an hour to get to this point, and he still had plenty of time to make and bake as he went, the last pie hopefully being done with twenty minutes to spare if all went to plan. Even if they took over an hour each, he should still finish just on time.

Looking around, he noted was definitely the only person with his bakes in the oven, everyone else still shaping their pastry ready to go in all together. He hoped his round robin approach would work out.

Next to make was Anne Boleyn, and he had chosen to use green pastry, the colour said to be her favourite, and the one used in the background of her most famous portrait at the National Gallery. He used the oval mould to represent the French hood Anne was mostly depicted wearing and assembled the rest of the pie just as before, though this time topping with her falcon badge.

Jane Seymour was known for her iconic gable headdress, complete with red-orange gown. He picked up on the red for her, adding the beetroot dye to colour it, and pressed the pastry into the pentagon mould, added in the filling, and placed the carved phoenix in the centre before putting it in the oven too.

While the portrait of Anne of Cleves was said to barely resemble her, it was much more likely an excuse on Henry’s part for his impotence; easier to blame Anne for being unattractive than even suggest it was his own failings, Crowley thought bitterly. Whether or not the Holbein was accurate or not, Crowley preferred another depiction, the one by Bruyn the Elder, where Anne is laden with orange finery and Tudor gable. He mixed the carrot puree into the dough, used the pentagon mould again, and topped with the escarbuncle, an eight spoked wheel.

Most of Katherine Howard’s portraits had been lost or destroyed after her execution, but one potentially surviving piece had her sitting before a peacock blue backdrop, wearing the fashionable French hood her cousin had been so fond of. Mixing the dye into the pastry, he made up another oval pie, and adorned the lid with her stylised rose.

Finally, there was Katherine Parr, who Crowley especially admired. For her he chose yellow, the closest he could get to her gold gilded dress in her Melton Constable portrait, mixing powdered saffron with a little hot water and folding it in the pastry. Katherine had also been a fan of the French hood, and he pressed the pastry into the oval mould, then topped it with the coloured lid and the design of the rose maiden she favoured.

Pies finely crafted, he took a moment to relax, clenching and unclenching his hands, his arms aching from the amount of kneading he’d done. After a minute or two, the first of his six alarms beeped, and he pulled the finished Katherine of Aragon pie from the oven. It was more grey than black, but the emblem looked good, and there didn’t appear to be any juices seeping out. He sighed in relief and sat back to wait for the next alarm to sound off.

* * *

The judges were very impressed by his pies, even the sceptical one had to admit the overall effect was great – despite the colours being a little more subtle than he’d have liked – and the taste was just as good. Crowley tried not to be as smug as possible when the judge stuck out his hand to shake, and settled back on his stool with his chest puffed up. He caught Aziraphale’s eye and was met with a blinding smile and thrilled applause.

They liked Aziraphale’s too, the presenters delighted by the little pig face he’d made from an array of curved and triangle shaped pies, all flavoured with ham hock, mushroom, sausage, and cider, and, as Aziraphale proudly announced, was titled ‘Ham-let’. The judges commented on its homeliness, the rustic nature of the oozing gravy and cracked lids, but it certainly didn’t make them look any less delicious in Crowley’s opinion.

It was a close round for everyone, but William did have a slightly undercooked quails egg in the centre, and Shadwell’s pie was well-baked but uninspired. Still, the atmosphere in the green room was light-hearted, with even the usually reserved William joining in a conversation with Adam, Marie, and Aziraphale, while Warlock and Crowley were laughing over some video on his phone.

The carefree attitudes were soon killed, however, by the sheer incomprehensible nature of the technical. It was some Tudor biscuit, apparently, and of course Aziraphale had heard of the ‘jumbles’ before, though he hadn’t eaten one surprisingly. Crowley would be glad to never see them again. The pattern made no sense, though some bakers seemed to be stuck on the Celtic knots and others on the knot balls; Crowley himself found the balls impossible, the instruction of ‘one end over the top and one underneath’ having him gripping at his hair. In the end, he spied on what Warlock was doing, then just tucked the dough into shape as best as he could. His Celtic knots were way too fat and lacking definition, but he honestly couldn’t care less at this stage, and hoped his pies and Marchpane cake were good enough.

William had come last, his knot balls just rolled dough that he attempted to score into shape, and his Celtic knots more like someone attempted to make spaghetti very unsuccessfully and then scrunched the result up in rage. Crowley was amazed that it was Marie next, and then himself, honestly anticipating doing worse, but apparently he’d at least baked them so they weren’t stodgy inside. Aziraphale came third, his Celtic knots a little too thin and overbaked, but his knot balls were good. The real shocker was Shadwell coming first, his shapes perfect, and when the judge compared his knot tying skills to that of a boy scout, he vehemently denied it like he was being accused of a heinous crime. 

The bus ride to the hotel was quieter without Gwen, but Marie could still be heard chatting to the driver, if with a little less enthusiasm. Adam and Warlock were in the seats in front of them, occasionally turning around to ask Crowley a question about his life, trying to work out if he was lying when he said he had coffee with Dolly Parton once, much to Aziraphale’s amusement. Shadwell and William were sitting quietly in their respectively seats, trying to avoid conversation by not making eye contact with anyone.

* * *

It had been a long week for both Crowley and Aziraphale, travelling from Edinburgh to London to Newbury in the space of three days really took the energy out of them, so much so that they didn’t even attempt to mingle with the other bakers at the hotel and instead retired straight to Aziraphale’s room.

Neither of them had been quite sure how to come out about their relationship to the producers, so they hadn’t said anything and hoped people would be somewhat observant about it, but so far they’d still been given two separate rooms to stay in. Nevertheless, Crowley hadn’t even given the pretence of going to his assigned room, and instead dumped his bag alongside Aziraphale’s and dragged the blonde off the to shower for a bout of sleepy love making before they collapsed into bed in a pile of snores and tangled limbs.

“Please no,” Crowley grumbled the next morning at the sound of the alarm, face pressed up against Aziraphale’s chest.

Aziraphale drowsily curled his arm around Crowley, “Mmm, I’m afraid so.”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley said, “Tomorrow we are not leaving the bed.”

“That is a rather appealing plan.”

“Then it’s settled. Pencil that in your diary.”

“Hmm, ‘Morning till noon, appointment with Crowley, location; in bed, agenda; sleep and sex’.”

Crowley grinned, “I never said anything about sex, Angel.”

“Oh, should I remove that point?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Or,” Aziraphale traced a pattern on Crowley’s lower back, “We could always bring that part of the meeting forward?”

“Well, that implies that we’d be doing it today _instead_ of tomorrow.”

“Consider it a preliminary meeting then. Follow-up any particularly pressing points tomorrow.”

Crowley held out his hand then at an awkward angle, and Aziraphale shook it with a smile, “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Oh, it certainly will be,” Aziraphale purred, rolling Crowley onto his back and pressing him into the mattress.

* * *

Crowley liked almonds, he thought they tasted nice on their own, or in brittle, or even in chocolate. But he just could not stand that sickly sweet taste of almond extract. His goal for this showstopper was to make it look as nice as physically possible and hope that they liked the taste.

He seemed to have about four tonnes of ground almonds on his bench and grumbled to himself as he measured them out for the almond sponges, flavoured with a hint of rose water; inspired by Battenberg, he’d decided to make a round green and white checkerboard style cake, decorated with a Tudor garden on top. It was quite simple really, for Week Five, but he supposed the sculpting of the hand-made marzipan – because they just had to add in that caveat – wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

The sponges were easy enough to make, two of each in the oven at a time so in the end he’d have a four layered masterpiece, and a bigger canvas to decorate his garden. He planned to just keep making marzipan and flowers until time ran out and hope it was suitably extravagant.

He coughed at the plume of icing sugar that puffed up from his bowl, fluffing it out of his hair as he cracked the egg in and turned on the electric mixer. He wasn’t about this traditional marzipan stuff, choosing instead to stick to the soft, sculptable, modern marzipan, flavoured again with rose water. Splitting the marzipan ball into several pieces, kneading colour into each one. The leaves were easy to make, marzipan rolled out flat and cut freehand into various shapes and sizes, with just a little bit of bending and shaping. The Tudor rose he sculpted next, delicate red petals on the outside with the white petal centre. Bunches of lavender, vibrant yellow marigolds, white rose buds, pink frilly carnations, soft orange tulips, and green sculpted sprigs made to look like rosemary, they all were delicately crafted and set aside on some baking parchment.

Cakes eventually cooled, he set about cutting them, slicing them with cake cutters into three separate circles, and then assembling with alternating green and white rings. He spread white chocolate buttercream between the layers, stacked them carefully up, and iced the outside, leaving it just in the naked style so he could decorate it. Leaving it to cool in the fridge for ten minutes, he took the chance to check out the competition.

Marie was making what looked like a very impressive peacock, and William in front of her seemed to also be making a garden, though with a maze instead of flowers. Adam had a whole castle scene with knights on horses, and Warlock an elaborate marzipan crown resting on a spiced fruit cake. He couldn’t quite tell what Shadwell’s was supposed to be, but it looked worryingly like it included a pyre and a black pointy hat.

Aziraphale was two benches in front of him again, and Crowley could see he’d gone with the baked marzipan route, always one for historical accuracy. Somehow he’d managed to bake it so it was curved, and he was assembling the two halves with chocolate to look like the jointing and beams of the Globe Theatre. Crowley was pretty damn impressed with the construction, if only because when Aziraphale had come round a few weeks ago to help Crowley set up a flatpack bookshelf for the blonde’s books when he was staying over he made such a terrible job of it that he was convinced Aziraphale lacked the basic dexterity for anything architectural. Then again, he did mend books for a living, so maybe he just had advanced gluing skills.

Smiling to himself, he retrieved his cake and began to place his flowers across the surface.

* * *

The judges loved Aziraphale’s sculpture, almost speechless at the accuracy of it as he carried it up to the front. He’d finished the roof with chocolate coated shredded wheat, really managing to make it look thatched, and he’d even sculpted a mini figure of the bard himself on the stage in the middle.

“This is the second Shakespeare inspired cake you’ve done today,” the judge commented, “You must be a fan.”

“Oh yes, he was most brilliant!” Aziraphale enthused, “I’ve seen a few plays at The Globe myself, and actually just watched Hamlet this last Tuesday,” he, almost involuntarily, twisted his head to look at Crowley from the corner of his eye, before turning back to the judges with a bright smile.

“Well, that explains yesterday’s pie!” the presenter laughed.

“Now, we know it looks good, but lets see how it tastes.”

He did have a cake element, a genoise ring behind the tall Marchpane walls, and flavoured with a raspberry curd, which the judges praised the flavour and texture of. One of the judges took far too much pleasure in snapping the curved wall, and Crowley almost winced at all the hard work going down the drain. They liked the flavour of that too, just a hint of raspberry and lemon, and the biscuit like texture.

Crowley liked his own cake well enough, but he had to admit it didn’t quite have the majesty of Aziraphale’s own bake. The judges liked it aesthetically, as a cake, but it wasn’t quite the Tudor marvel they were looking for, even if they were impressed with the artistry of the flowers and the surprise checkerboard. Surprisingly enough, they loved the taste, though, and Crowley silent thanked someone that it had worked out ok.

The less said about Shadwell’s ‘Ode to Witchfinders’ the better.

* * *

Aziraphale just pipped him to the post and won Star baker, his Marchpane sealing the deal, Crowley cheering the loudest when his name was announced.

William was the unlucky one this week, his undercooked pie, terrible jumbles, and the cake for his Marchpane stodgy and not enough to save him. The man in question sighed resignedly and accepted the consoling pat on the back Marie was giving him, before they slipped out of the tent for a few brief interviews.

Once back at the hotel, Adam approached them as they were loading up the trunk, Warlock close behind, “Hey guys,” he greeted, “Me and Warlock were thinking about arranging some sort of get together this week? Like a reunion type thing.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Aziraphale smiled.

“Yeah, I’ve got Gwen’s number, and Adam has Jesus’. We didn’t know if either of you had anyone else’s?” Warlock chipped in.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Aziraphale said, “I do have Shem’s address though.”

“No offence, Angel, but I don’t think a letter is the most efficient method of communicating now we’re not in the 1800s,” Crowley quipped, slipping his phone from his pocket, “I’ve got Eve’s and Shem’s numbers,” he said, then at Aziraphale’s surprised look, “Eve found my website, wanted to get a painting done at some point. And well, Shem just gave his number to me.”

“Great! We were thinking maybe tomorrow?” Adam suggested, “We’ve got no uni classes, and I know that Gwen doesn’t work Mondays. You guys are freelance, right?”

Crowley and Aziraphale shared a look.

“We are, yeah,” Crowley said, “But we have plans tomorrow, unfortunately.”

They did not say that their plans only involved the two of them, a bed, and at least one bottle of lube.

“Aw, bummer!” Warlock frowned, “Guess we’ll have to do another day. Or like, you could come later? Gwen has to get the train back before eight, but if you could make it at some point it would be awesome.”

“Perhaps we could spare an hour, darling?” Aziraphale asked Crowley.

They looked at each other, silently communicating with little eye movement and mouth twitches.

Crowley sighed, “Eh, I guess it couldn’t hurt. Maybe six?” 

“I’ll take it,” Adam grinned, “It’s not set in stone anyway, so we’ll just text you the details whenever we know what’s up, yeah?”

“Sure,” Crowley said, “Well, I guess we’ll see you around. Enjoy your bus ride while we drive in the machine of a dream,” he patted the roof of the Bentley.

“One day,” Warlock assured, “One day I will get to ride in that thing.”

“In your dreams, Hellspawn.” Crowley called to his retreating back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, that ending was abrupt. Not much of a previewing end scene this week, mostly because this chapter is so long, also because I’ve revised what I was going to do next week!
> 
> There is another scent by UNUM called Symphonie Passion which would suit Aziraphale very well and is literally described as ‘old library smell’ but... how could I resist the bowtie bottle of Penhaligon’s Sartorial?? Also, all their bottles are GORGEOUS 
> 
> Apple blossom represents heady love, peace, sensuality, and fertility, and apple trees have symbolism in many faiths and cultures, including associations with Aphrodite and love, Norse Goddess Idunn and youthfulness, Celts and wholeness and healing, and of course in Abrahamic religions represents wisdom, knowledge and temptation. 
> 
> All of the dishes they have at Aizle are based on a single tripadvisor reviewer who was a saint and uploaded not only their unique menu but also individual pictures from Feb 2020, thanks travellingdoc, whoever you are. 
> 
> My MO is using this chapter as a Tudor history lesson – Henry VIII is trash, the fact his wives are remembered chiefly by a rhyme about their ‘outcome’ is disgusting. Each and every one of them contributed to history and yet this had been forgotten in favour of a misogynistic bigot who’s only ‘achievement’ was to create a new religion founded on lust and male entitlement. There are several books detailing these six Tudor Queens' individual lives, but a great in-depth analysis can be found in Antonia Fraser’s ‘The Six Wives of Henry VIII’. 
> 
> In light of recent events and the fact that it is an amazing book, you should read ‘Blackamoores’ by Onyeka Nubia, which offers a comprehensive insight into Black people in Tudor England that has chosen to be forgotten by white historians, or for a broader historical scope try ‘Black and British: A Forgotten History’ by David Olusoga (who btw does the fascinating TV series ‘A House Through Time’). Another great resource is the Channel 4 documentary ‘Skeletons of the Mary Rose: The New Evidence’ which shows how members of the crew of the illustrious Mary Rose were Black, proving that the ‘white assumption’ of the past is historically damaging and inaccurate. You should also check out the history of John Blanke, a Black trumpeter in the court of Henry VIII who was paid the equivalent of £44 a day after he successfully appealed to the king to double his wage, and who was depicted on the 1511 Westminster Tournament Roll several times. I am sure there are many, many more examples out there, so please seek them out!
> 
> Black history is there and has always been there, we need to remember it.


	6. Week 6 - Batter Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Update 22/09/20 - This will get done, I swear, but I'm working full-time now so am quite, quite busy! Also, I am currently watching the new Bake Off and A GBBO VILLAGE? Living AWAY FROM HOME FOR WEEKS?? That's like prime fic potential!!! Smh, I wrote this fic prematurely - please someone fic that I'm begging you 
> 
> I'm seemingly incapable of writing a chapter less than 10k now - what have I become???
> 
> I wasn’t sure whether to up the rating or not, but I don’t think it’s any more explicit that I’ve written before, so I’ve kept it as mature – hope that’s ok! 
> 
> I originally planned for this to be a Parisian excursion, but after the last chapter I think it would be description overload! Rest assured there are crepes though. 
> 
> Uh, you might have noticed that I didn’t mention Victoria at all last chapter, and that is purely because I completely forgot she was a contestant ahaha, she’s a quiet woman, ok? Adam simply asked her to the outing off camera after he asked Crowley and Aziraphale.
> 
> Thanks so much for you comments and kudos so far! I love you guys <3

When Aziraphale and Crowley finally dragged themselves from their bed it was already early evening, the bustling of the city less from commuters and more from people socialising. Adam had texted Crowley sometime around lunchtime to say they’d be meeting at a gastropub near Kings Cross, and while they may have been a few hours late to the initial meet up time, the Bake Off contestants were still there around a large table in the corner.

Warlock waved them over, shuffling up on the bench so there was room for Crowley, while Aziraphale took the comfy looking cushioned dining chair near it. Eve, already tipsy, cheered enthusiastically at them, then teetered off to the bar to order their drink preferences she’d wheedled out of them at the door.

Unsurprisingly, on the other side of Warlock was Adam, who had what looked like a bowl of three different flavours of ice cream in front of him, chatting with Marie who was perched opposite, and in her flowing cream dress and curled up-do she could rival Aziraphale on ostentatiousness. Jesus was in the far corner, showing Shem something on his phone with a goblet of wine beside him, while the latter was trying not to choke on his orange juice with laughter. Gwen, as usual, was flitting between each conversation in turn, thriving off the attention, and pulling the rather introverted Victoria into the discussion.

Shadwell was not present, though Aziraphale didn’t know if he wasn’t invited or just didn’t come.

“Hey guys,” Adam greeted around his spoon.

“Hello everyone, lovely to see you all,” Aziraphale smiled, taking off his coat and folding it over his lap, “Oh, is William not here?”

“He couldn’t come,” Victoria said quietly as always, “He lives over in Warwickshire, so it was a little tricky for him to come down after work.”

“That’s a shame. Hopefully he can make it next time,” Aziraphale said politely.

Crowley dropped his coat on the chair next to Aziraphale, “Just going to the loo, Angel.”

“Alright dear,” he kissed his cheek and then settled in next to Victoria, “How are you Victoria?”

“I’m rather well, thank you,” she said, clenching her fingers on her lap in a gesture Aziraphale often used himself, “You?”

“I’m doing very well, myself.”

They sat awkwardly in silence for a moment.

“Ah, and how have you found practicing for the Bake Off this week?” Aziraphale queried.

Victoria smiled gently, “My husband has enjoyed it more than me. He particularly likes the Yorkshire puddings, especially since he’d never had them before coming to Britain.”

“Things always do taste nicer when someone else makes them,” Aziraphale agreed, “Where is your husband from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Germany, ah, Munich to be specific,” her smile widened, “We met when I was there for the language placement module while I was studying German at University.”

“Oh, _sprechen Sie Deutsh_? _Ich bin selbst ein bisschen polyglott.“_

“ _Ja! Ich interpretiere aus verschiedenen Gründen; die Polizei, Grenzkontrollen und mehrere Wohltätigkeitsorganisationen._ _Ich spreche fließend Russisch und Bulgarisch.“_

Aziraphale tried to follow the words, but he was still somewhat of an amateur when it came to German. He had probably been a little too ambitious in engaging in conversation with someone fluent. He could get certain words, simply by virtue of being an English speaker, but others were a little trickier for him.

“ _Entschuldigung, ich habe ein bisschen Probleme_ ,“ he said, “Sorry, I’m not quite brushed up on my German at the moment. Did you say you were an interpreter? And in Russian and Bulgarian too?”

“Ah, yes, I interpret for the police and various charities,” she said, a little deflated that she couldn’t practice the language more, “What languages do you speak?”

“Mine are mainly academic, really. Latin, Welsh, Old English. Nothing quite so useful in the modern age.”

“No, no, I think keeping languages alive is very admirable,” she reassured, “I take it you’re a bit of a historian?”

“Oh, yes, you could say I dabble in it here and there, though my main passion is literature.”

“That’s harsh, Angel,” Crowley joked as he sat back down, “I thought _I_ was your main passion.”

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale began, patting his arm, “You give me many things, but you could never replace my Oscar Wilde collection.”

Warlock snorted, “That was brutal Aziraphale.”

“Ice cold,” Adam agreed, nodding.

“I am incredibly offended,” Crowley scowled, “You couldn’t even pit me against Tolkien. Or Jane Austen.”

“I can add them to the podium if you prefer?” Aziraphale asked cheekily, “And don’t think I haven’t resigned myself to coming second place to your precious car.”

“Careful now Crowley,” Eve smirked as she plonked a glass of red wine down next to Aziraphale, and a virgin Bloody Mary for Crowley, relegated to the designated driver again.

“I mean, he’s not wrong,” Crowley teased, taking a sip, “Although, Freddie is certainly up there too.”

Shem frowned, “Who’s Freddie?”

“Tsk, honestly Crowley,” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, then turned to the rest of the group, “Freddie is Crowley’s prized fern. And yes, I do believe he is named after that fellow from Queen.”

“Why am I not surprised you have a plant named after Freddie Mercury?” Marie said.

“Ooo, what kind of fern?” Eve asked excitedly.

“ _Polyscias fruticosa_ ,”

“It’s a lovely thing,” Aziraphale added, “Taller than even Crowley.”

“Ah, Ming aralia!” Eve said wistfully, “My mum used to have one of those before they went out of style.”

“Way to make me sound old,” Crowley pouted.

“You are nearly fifty dear,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Ah, yes, soon I’ll be joining you in the fifty to death category of life.”

“You say that guys,” Jesus commented, “But one of my friend’s gran turned eighty last year and is living on an around the world cruise ship with her seventy-three year old girlfriend. And my _other_ pal’s dad is over sixty and he’s just began transitioning. So, life’s not over yet.”

“Well, I guess I can drink to that,” Crowley lifted his glass and clinked it with Jesus’, “Cheers!”

They all had another round of drinks, after which Victoria departed, then another round after that, so that Aziraphale’s cheeks were pleasantly flushed, and Jesus was eager to hug everyone to show how much he cared about them. Inevitably, they got onto the topic of the Bake Off, and what the future had in store for the bakers.

“It’s botanical next week,” Eve lamented, “It would have been my week, I swear. Crowley, its up to you now; you’re the closest thing to a botanist.”

“Botanist is a bit strong! I’m just a man who has a lot of plants,” Crowley laughed, “Though if you insist on giving me tips I won’t say no.”

“Uh, I’ll have you know my old gardener taught me everything I know, so I wouldn’t write me off,” Warlock joked, “Even if his messages were mostly about Sister Slug and Brother Pigeon.”

“Sister slug can stay away from me,” Marie grimaced, “That’s my message.”

“Hey, if Brother Francis taught me anything, it’s that we have to love all creatures, even slugs,” Warlock looked off to the side, trying to recall what else his odd gardener did, “And something about plants being the proof of God’s love, I think. I was like five at the time and just liked the pretty colours to be honest.”

Crowley nudged Aziraphale, “If I didn’t know better I’d say that was you, Angel.”

“Oh no, messing about with soil would completely ruin my manicure,” Aziraphale said, “And think of the state my clothes would be in. It’s bad enough when I have to water your plants, darling.”

“I only asked you once!” Crowley insisted.

“Yes, because I spilled soil on my brand new slippers and point blank refused to do it again.”

“To be fair, Crowley, you don’t come between a man and his slippers,” Adam said, then to everyone’s raised eyebrows, “What? I appreciate having warm feet.”

“Thank you Adam,” Aziraphale said smugly, “At least someone here has sense.”

Jesus, feeling generous and also ravenous – which Crowley suspected had something to do with the ‘cigarette’ break he took twenty minutes ago – ordered three bowls of chips to share between them, and a vege-burger for himself. One of the bowls was set down in front of Crowley, and he pushed it over a little closer to a grateful Aziraphale who swiped up one fluffy chip with his fork.

“I just can’t believe I went out on bread week,” Jesus said forlornly, shaking his head at the brioche bun under his fingers like it had personally offended him, “Like, bread is my thing. All the boys think so. How do you even leave yeast out of a bread dough?”

Shem lay a hand on his arm, “Jesus, my friend, at least you didn’t smash your biscuit boat to pieces.”

Jesus grinned, “True. I can picture the slow-motion replay already.”

“And the dramatic framing of the remains, then cut to adverts.”

“Just wait until you get on the Extra Slice in a few weeks,” Gwen added, “They’ll have a whole remix with dramatic music.”

“Oh god,” Crowley groaned, “I forgot about the whole Extra Slice thing.”

Aziraphale patted his hand, “There, there darling. I promise not to laugh at the montage of you talking to your bakes.”

“Angel! Stop revealing all my embarrassing secrets.”

“Was that supposed to be a secret?” Marie asked, sipping on her Grapefruit Negroni, “I watched you last week muttering at your marzipan flowers for about ten minutes straight. It was very entertaining.”

“Yeah,” Eve grinned, “I was only there one week, and even I know that, Crowley.”

Crowley crossed his arms dramatically, “Yeah, well, Aziraphale likes to read smutty novels in the tent.”

“Crowley! They are not smutty.”

“I don’t know,” Marie swirled her glass, “The glimpses I got of Lady Chatterley’s Lover were certainly enlightening.”

“Well, when one reads classic literature, erotica is just an occupational hazard,” Aziraphale huffed, “Nobody took note of when I was reading Les Mis, or Brave New World.”

Gwen took one of the last chips from the bowl near her, grease staining her fingertips, “I did, but that’s not as funny as you reading mills and boon on a family baking show.”

The evening had been rather lovely, really. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale had realised just how much the stress of the competition had effected the atmosphere in the tent or in hotel bar on the weekends, and how nice it was just to socialise together without the caveat there.

Normally Crowley’s default with other people was a sort of defensive curtness, but being there with Aziraphale brought something, dare he say it, _nice_ out in him, a desire to please his partner, to try with the others so that he would grace him with that lovely laugh and lovely smile. It helped that he truly liked most of them, Warlock and Adam reminding him a lot of himself at that age, and Shem like a boy he used to work with who had sadly long since passed away. Gwen and Marie were cheeky each in their own way, and there was something of Aziraphale in them that endeared him probably more than it should. There was something with Eve that just clicked, and even with the short time they had known each other through the Bake Off, Crowley felt like they both understood each other more than most.

Jesus was a great guy, funny and friendly and smart, and Crowley could see how he had so many different friends, all who he seemed to adore and loved to gush about. Victoria was probably the person he got on with least, if only because she was very reserved and had never found common ground with her; she seemed sweet though, perfectly happy to just listen and experience all that was going on around her.

They’d walked Shem, Adam, and Warlock back to Kings Cross, Gwen and Marie following before they broke off to take the tube, and Jesus moving on to another pub where he’d be meeting another one of his friends.

Still, as nice as the outing had been, both Aziraphale and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief once they were settled in the Bentley, happy to have time to themselves again.

“Well, that was wonderful,” Aziraphale smiled tiredly, “But I think I’d like to settle down with a nice cup of tea and a book.”

Crowley shifted the gear stick, “I’ll be delighted to make that happen, Angel.”

* * *

There was an acrid smell coming from the kitchen when Crowley woke the next morning, and within a minute of him blinking awake his smoke alarm was blaring out. He groggily got to his feet, calling out roughly for Aziraphale, and stumbled into the kitchen.

Aziraphale was standing below the smoke alarm wafting a tea towel, a smoking frying pan with black crispy residue inside settled in the sink, and that god awful smell stronger.

“Oh Christ,” Crowley yelled over the alarm, “What on earth?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted back, still waving around the towel with fervour, “So sorry darling, I only turned away for a moment!”

With a sigh, Crowley strode over to the alarm, reaching up easily and pressing the stop button, the noise shutting off immediately, “What’re you making?”

“Ah, I was practicing crêpes, actually,” Aziraphale said, twisting the cloth between his fingers, “Only, I’m really rather terrible at them. It’s this silly electric hob, dear. With gas it’s so simple, on is hot, off is cold. Even those new-fangled induction ones in the tent make more sense.”

“Hey, that hob is state of the art, I’ll have you know,” he replied, peering over to inspect the remains in the sink, “ _That’s_ a crêpe?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale frowned, “Only, when I tried to flip it, it sort of ripped, and scraped into that mess.”

“Angel, how can you not make crêpes? You love crêpes.”

“To eat, yes, but I can always get such tasty ones at that crêperie down the road I have no need to make them.”

Crowley took the tea towel from him, gently setting it aside and pulling Aziraphale closer, “Only you could be the best baker I know and not be able to make crêpes.”

“Oh, Crowley, really darling, the best?” Aziraphale blushed.

“Mmhmm, the best,” he kissed him on the edge of his mouth, “Just perhaps not at crêpes.”

“That hardly bodes well for me this week, dear,” he stroked his hands down Crowley’s back, “I’m rather convinced the technical will be something along those lines, or Scotch pancakes perhaps. And I’m not sure I’ve ever baked a Yorkshire pudding that actually rose like it should have.”

“You have, you made me that roast dinner the other week, remember? When you got that beef joint from that market stall,” Crowley recalled, “You made some brilliant Yorkshires then.”

“Ah, well, actually, I must confess they were Aunt Bessie’s,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Wh- I- you cheeky bastard!” Crowley grinned, “You let me compliment them the whole meal.”

“I never actually said they were mine, you know,” Aziraphale smiled, “But I’ll be sure to pass on your glowing review to the dear aunt herself.”

“Bastard,” he said again, kissing at his neck playfully rough, before pressing a final light peck to the skin and looking at his Angel’s flushed, happy face, “How about I help you out a bit, yeah?

The smile grew into something that surely must have been painful for his cheeks to sustain, “Oh, would you?”

“’Course, s’what I’m here for,” Crowley said, pulling away, “Now, lets get a look at this batter,” he scooped the ladle into the jug, pouring the mix out into the rest to check the consistency, “Seems thin enough, not lumpy. Hmm, how about you show me your whole process and I’ll see what’s up, yeah?”

“Alright, dear,” Aziraphale agreed, “Let me just wash up the pan first.”

After he’d cleaned up, he set the pan back on the hob, cutting off a slice of butter to heat in the bottom, then turned on the heat. He placed his hand just over the pan to check the heat, and as soon as he felt some warmth, he went to ladle some of the batter in.

“Ah, not yet, Angel,” Crowley stopped him, taking his hand and placing the ladle back down, “Gotta wait for it to heat up more first, enough to fully melt the butter and coat the bottom of the pan.”

“I know that,” he scowled, “I do know that! Only you keep your butter in the fridge and the hob is electric and this pan is bigger and it’s all going wrong.”

“Hey, hey, no need to get worked up, Angel,” Crowley soothed, hugging him from behind, “I know you like the routine of baking, know all the times instinctively, but don’t forget the skills, yeah?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, “Sorry, my dear, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, you’re alright. I had the same crisis back in the first week, but luckily I was only boiling a pan of water. I was pretty damn surprised when I left it two minutes and it was spewing everywhere like a volcano,” he reassured, “Besides, once we’re in the tent none of this will be a problem.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

While he used a little too much batter for the first one, his next few crêpes were much better, even if he had to be aided a little with the flip for one or two. Crowley didn’t have any cream or strawberries to hand, but with some reluctance Aziraphale settled for the classic English method of lemon juice and sugar. Crowley even served himself one from the stack, though he was a lot less liberal than Aziraphale with his topping.

After breakfast was done, they made a quick trip to the shops to top up Crowley’s fridge, and then set to work on perfecting Yorkshire puddings. It wasn’t a surprise that Crowley knew his way around them; he’d spent hours of boredom in his thirties trawling through baking websites, magazines, and show, picking up tips and tricks for almost every part of baking, and it showed with the sheer technical knowledge he had. If asked he would quietly admit that he thought anyone could learn technique, it was just methodical, but learning flavours like Aziraphale did – that’s what make him a great baker in Crowley’s eyes.

Having made a rather good batch where only two didn’t rise into shape, Aziraphale was already thinking of improvements, swapping out the oil for beef dripping, and perhaps adding herbs and spices into the batter itself, to enhance the flavour when he filled it.

It wasn’t exactly easy to fob off six Yorkshire Puddings to the neighbour at midday on a Tuesday, so Aziraphale fried up some lovely sausages they’d bought from the farmers market, and they had a pared down feast of deconstructed Toad-In-The-Hole with lashings of gravy. If Aziraphale ended up eating four of them, Crowley pushing his third to the edge of the plate to be plucked up, neither of them complained.

They decided to leave the churros to another day, already bloated from their batter filled foray, and instead decided to go out for a walk in St James’ Park. It was an even shorter walk from Crowley’s flat than it was the bookshop, and before long they were cutting through Green Park and past the gates of Buckingham Palace, dodging the crowds as the path took them into St James’ and out onto the lake.

“Hey look, Angel, the cygnets are out,” Crowley pointed to a pair of swans with six little cygnets paddling behind.

“Oh, yes, and- oh look! That one is riding on its parent’s back!” Aziraphale cooed at another pair on the other side of the lake.

“I’m surprised that they’re not going for that girl over there,” Crowley muttered, watching as a young teen unintentionally disturbed all the waterfowl in the pursuit of sorrowfully splashing stones into the lake, “Very territorial, swans are.”

Aziraphale nodded solemnly, “Oh, indeed. When I was a child I used to read in the grass by the church pond, and one day I came across a sweet little nest. At first I thought the eggs were rocks, and went to pick one up, but I quickly realised my error when a pair of swans chased me right back to the house. I only read indoors from them on.”

Crowley snorted, “No wonder. My poor Angel running from the mean old swans,” he teased, hugging him closer.

“Yes, well, that was the last time I ran too,” he sniffed, lips quirking up in a smile when Crowley couldn’t contain his laugh.

“God, I tried running once as a New Years resolution thing with Anathema and we lasted all of two minutes before we packed it in and went home,” Crowley reminisced, “Next time I suffer through that will be when I’m running from the Grim Reaper themselves.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Aziraphale said, “Gabriel used to love it; he was part of the local athletics club and tried to rope everyone else in. Luckily Michael and Uriel actually wanted to, and he was always to busy to try and cajole me into doing it.”

“The more I hear about that arsehole the more I’m thankful I’ve never met him.”

“He means well, I suppose.”

“For himself maybe. As soon as something doesn’t benefit him I bet it’s a different story.”

Aziraphale shifted a bit uncomfortably, “He _is_ making sure my mother is well cared for.”

“Yeah, with your money,” Crowley said, glancing at Aziraphale and doing a double take at the look on his face, “You alright, Angel?”

“What? Ah, um, yes. Sorry, it’s just. I’d rather you didn’t talk about Gabriel that way.”

“Angel? I thought you hated the guy!”

“I don’t hate him,” Aziraphale said, his tone almost snappish, but then he softened again quickly, “I’m sorry. I- sometimes I want to. I know the way he’s treated me is awful, and I know he’s only treating me decently now because I can give him money, but- he’s still my brother. I remember our childhood, before I left, and it was good. I was so happy, right up to when I was seventeen. We all used to play together, and laugh together, and if it hadn’t been I don’t think their rejection would have hit me quite so hard. I lost everything when I left; my faith, my family, my home. So when you talk about him I- it’s like he’s two different people, the brother I remember, and the man I can’t stand, and I know I’ve slated him in the past, but in my mind I’m thinking of the stranger. When it’s someone else, it’s harder to separate them, it’s more painful.”

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley said, pulling him into a hug, “I’m sorry. I have to say before I didn’t get why you even still spoke to him or why you would help him. I don’t remember ever having that connection to my family, and for me it was so easy to leave. But I can see now why it was so hard for you, they weren’t just your family, they _felt_ like family too. You were so brave, Aziraphale. You still are. You’re the bravest person I know.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale said quietly, “I’m sorry for spoiling our walk.”

“Nonsense, Angel. I like talking with you, even about the sad things, or the serious things. I want to know you.”

Aziraphale smiled wobblily, “My darling, you’re ever so sweet. I enjoy all our time together too. So much.”

They held each other quietly and supportively, watching water of the lake sparkle under the afternoon sun, the leaves on the trees occasionally quivering in the wind, and the swans finally honking at the disruptive girl. Three ducks swam by in front of them, a softly quacking chain that they both followed fondly with their eyes.

Crowley rubbed Aziraphale’s back one last time, then pulled away to look at him, “How about we treat ourselves, yeah? A nice little meal, a trip to the theatre, a cheeky little nightcap.”

“That’s hardly a rare itinerary for us, dearest, but it is always a treat,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s hand as they began to walk again, “How about Shakespeare, for the play?”

“Mmm, could do. Just not Hamlet again.”

“Well, what would you like then?”

“I heard the Barbican are doing ‘As You Like It’.”

“Oh, but you know it’s my least favourite Shakespeare,” Aziraphale pouted, “Though I do have a wonderful folio of it from 1887 that was illustrated by Emile Bayard himself!”

“Who?”

“Darling, really, the artist who did the iconic Les Misérables illustrations. You know, Cosette with her broom? It’s still used in the musical posters.”

“Ah yeah, with the hair,” Crowley mimicked the flow of hair with a gesture, “Didn’t realise it was an old thing, I just thought they made it for the posters. No wonder you like it.”

They rounded the other side of the lake and Aziraphale tutted, “I like it because Emile was a very talented artist.”

Crowley rolled his eyes at the use of his first name, the same way he did Oscar Wilde. “I thought you didn’t know anything about art?”

“Well, it’s mostly illustrators, really. I couldn’t tell you much more than the basic names like Da Vinci, or Van Gogh.”

“I could give you an education,” Crowley drawled, bumping his shoulder against Aziraphale.

“Could you?”

“Mmm, take you to a museum, introduce you to Delacroix, Rodin, maybe Rubens actually, you’d like Baroque. And Vigee Le Brun has some of the best portraiture around. Then there’s the classics; Caravaggio, Bernini, Mantegna, Fontana, all that lot, very religious, you’d probably recognise some of it,” Crowley enthused, “And then there’s the abstract art and surrealism, Kandinsky, Frankenthaler, Boccioni, Balla has some great geometric stuff, Escher too, and you’ve got to love Rene Magritte.”

“I could listen to you talking about art all day,” Aziraphale sighed happily, “I’d love to go to an art museum with you; where were you thinking of? The National Gallery?”

“If you like, Angel, though it’s abstract selection is abysmal,” he said, “If you want the full experience the Louvre is best. Maybe we could go there one day, too.”

“Oh, darling, I would love that,” Aziraphale gushed, “We could do all of Paris, then. Make it a lovely romantic holiday.”

“Sounds perfect, Angel, but first,” he wrapped his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, “The Barbican!”

* * *

Despite Aziraphale’s opinions on the comedy, he decided that because Crowley had endured Hamlet in Edinburgh, Aziraphale would dutifully do the same for As You Like It, stopping for a light dinner at the Barbican Kitchen before the show. It hadn’t been too late for them to book tickets online this time, still a good few hours until the start time, and they’d managed to get two seats in the upper circle, even if they had a limited view. Aziraphale was a little too close to a pillar on his left side and was forced to lean in very close to Crowley’s side to watch the havoc on stage. Not that he was complaining of course; it was lovely to have Crowley’s arm resting comfortably across his shoulders, arm rest raised so their thighs could touch. The blonde spent at least half of the play with his own hand on Crowley’s knee, thumb soothing through his jeans.

The atmosphere on the drive home was charged, Aziraphale barely able to take his eyes off Crowley as he talked about the play, a charming grin showing his teeth as he navigated the busy London streets, so much so that Aziraphale didn’t even mind that he was driving a little too fast. He was struck, once again, with how beautiful Crowley actually was; bright chartreuse eyes and the flick of wine-red hair across his forehead that he longed to tuck away, those oh-so expressive eyebrows that often said more than he did, the crinkles around his eyes when he let himself wholeheartedly smile or laugh. Today he was in a deep vee-neck, his silver snake-like necklace framing the irresistible length of his neck and the tuft of curled chest hair peeking out from his shirt, and Aziraphale longed to touch it. The way he was handling the steering wheel was stirring up all sorts of feelings inside him, the long fingers moving dexterously from the wheel to the gearstick to the indicator. Aziraphale gripped his car door tighter and swallowed.

It wasn’t like Aziraphale being aroused around Crowley was uncommon, but there was something extra in the air that night, maybe from the way he had been grinning at the play, not afraid of showing he was enjoying himself for once, or maybe from being so close to him all night resisting the urge to kiss him. Either way, he was feeling particularly charmed, working himself up a little with thoughts of what he’d like for them both to do with each other.

When they parked up in an empty space outside the bookshop, Crowley did his usual chivalrous deed of opening the door for Aziraphale, outstretching a lovely hand for him to take. He rose with the help but didn’t let go of his hand, instead tugging the still grinning Crowley to the door of the bookshop.

“Darling,” he whispered once they were through the door, pushing him back against the wood and kissing a rather surprised Crowley soundly.

“Mmm, Angel” Crowley murmured, eyes fluttering as Aziraphale introduced a very enthusiastic amount of tongue, “What was that for?” Crowley panted, “I mean, feel free to continue, of course, just- ah, bit of a surprise. A good one.”

Aziraphale smoothed his hands down his chest, “You’re very charming you know.”

“Yeah? You think?” he simpered.

“Absolutely, my dearest. Especially when you smile like that.”

“Maybe I’ll make a habit of it, then.”

“Oh, please do.”

Aziraphale pulled him in again, nearly tripping over an old rug as he attempted to walk them backwards to the stairs, Crowley cupping his elbows and guiding him around the furniture. They reluctantly parted so they didn’t die on the way up the stairs, but Crowley was barely a hairbreadth behind him, hands brushing on the banister leading to arms around Aziraphale’s waist as they tumbled into the hallway and then into the bedroom.

Turning in his hold, Aziraphale immediately set to work divesting Crowley of his jacket and silly necklace, heart quickening at both the strong arms it revealed and the heated gaze Crowley was giving him. He was only stopped in his advances by a hand cupping his jaw, thumb stroking across his flushed cheek, and then he dived in to taste him again, sliding his palms down to fumble with the knot of Aziraphale’s bowtie.

Coat, shirt, pants, a mad scramble to remove shoes and socks, each piece of skin rediscovered cherished with a gentleness reserved for a delicate flower petal, the curves and rolls of Aziraphale in perfect harmony with the dips and valleys of Crowley, pleasure in each touch from their lips pressed to hands intertwined.

Aziraphale eventually lowered Crowley down onto the bedspread, mouthing at his neck as his hands stripped him of the remaining vestiges of clothing. Crowley was more frantic, fingers tangled in the blonde’s curls and leg hooking around Aziraphale’s thick thigh. Pressing a deep kiss to Crowley’s lips, Aziraphale took his ministrations downwards, kissing across his chest and paying some lovely attention to one of Crowley’s sensitive nipples.

“Ah, yes, come on, Angel!” he groaned, arching into his mouth and grip tightening almost too harshly in Aziraphale’s hair.

He smiled, laying his cheek against Crowley’s pec and looking up at him besotted, holding him by his waist.

Crowley whined, “Don’t stop, Angel, why did you stop?”

“Mmm, just admiring how beautiful you are, dearest.”

“Can’t you do that while touching me?”

Aziraphale laughed, a lovely mercurial thing, “I do suppose I could,” he said, and dragged his hand across his bony hip down to his flushed cock, thumbing at the tip, collecting the fluid there and using it to slick his way. He could feel Crowley’s heartbeat, and he stroked to the rhythm of it, pump up, pump down, faster, as Crowley panted above him. His chest rumbled deep with his involuntary moans, and this was better than just hearing Crowley, he could feel him, feel the thrum of his body responding to his touch.

Crowley tried to keep his eyes open and on Aziraphale’s face, but his eyelids couldn’t help but flutter closed in pleasure, hand clutching at his partner’s back and toes curling.

“That’s it, my darling,” Aziraphale whispered, “You’re so lovely like this.”

“Yes, Angel, please- keep talking,” Crowley gasped out through clenched teeth.

“Anything, my dear, anything,” he kissed his chest, speeding up his pace even as his wrist started to twinge, “Your cock belongs in my hand, dearest, so lovely, so perfect, the feel of you. I ache to see you orgasm, my precious, precious Crowley, there’s nothing else that compares to the look on your face.”

“You, ah, fuck, you’re perfect, Angel.”

“After you come, I want to feel you. Can I, darling? Can I press up against your arse, feel the slide of myself between your glorious cheeks?”

“Yes! Please, yes, do it, don’t wait.”

Aziraphale guided him up to flip over onto his knees, arse up and high and perfect. Reaching over to slick himself with proper lube, he took Crowley back in hand as he slid his cock between Crowley’s cheeks – not entering, they were too impatient for that right now – fucking through the crevice of his arse. He stretched back over to lay his chest to Crowley’s back, panting into the back of his neck between nips and kisses.

“You’re so responsive darling,” Aziraphale continued his tirade, “I can feel your pleasure through every shudder, every breath. Look at that, your hands gripping the bedsheet. I can see your pleasure, each white knuckle on those wonderous hands. Do you remember all the things those hands have done to me, darling? Every stroke across my skin? I do, I remember every second, and I’m going to spend every second making you feel the same way I did.”

He dragged his cock back so the head was resting against Crowley’s hole, a few gentle thrusts just probing at the entrance as Crowley howled beneath him and spilled across Aziraphale’s hand and the rumpled bedsheets.

“There we are my precious boy,” Aziraphale stroked him until he was spent, “What a wonderful creature you are.”

“Mmm, Aziraphale,” Crowley groaned into the pillow, “Keep going. Use my arse, please.”

“Gladly, my dear,” Aziraphale let go of his cock, taking both his hips into his hands and thrusting harder, the tip of his cock sliding out the top of his crack obscenely. The lube made everything easier, each glide between the flesh smooth and fast. Crowley reached back as best as he could to push his cheeks together, making everything so much tighter and snug, and it wasn’t long before Aziraphale was spilling across his hole and up his exposed spine.

Crowley knees slipped beneath him on the sheets, tipping him and Aziraphale onto their sides on the rumpled bedcovers. They stayed like that, breathing in sync, Crowley’s grip on the quilt slowly loosening as Aziraphale’s arms around him tightened.

“Well, that was lovely,” Aziraphale mumbled into Crowley’s neck, fingers playing with the trail of hair on his stomach.

“Bit more than that, Angel,” Crowley said, leaning back into his touch, “Pretty damn spectacular.”

“I do suppose it was,” Aziraphale grinned, pressing a kiss to his skin.

They fell asleep like that, too tired to bother with much more clean-up than a cursory wipe with a tissue.

* * *

Crowley woke first, the warmth of the summer day and Aziraphale’s body heat just a little too stifling, but the comfort was too good not to revel in for a few minutes more. Still, it was rare he was awake before his partner, and he took the opportunity to slip from the bed and get him breakfast in bed. As much as he liked pleasing Aziraphale, he couldn’t be bothered to cook anything, and instead chose to pop out to the bakery down the road to pick up some pastries for him.

After a pleasant walk under the late morning sun, he returned to the bookshop with two apricot Danishes and a bougastsa, shooing away a customer who was peering through the window. He trod quietly across the old carpet, attempting to avoid the floorboards he knew were creaky, and slipping off his shoes so they weren’t too loud on the stairs.

His precautions were all rather unnecessary though, for Aziraphale was awake when he crept back in, smiling delightedly at him, “Crowley! I was wondering where you bopped off to.”

He pushed himself up to sitting, the duvet pooling very attractively around his still-bare waist and suddenly Crowley was far too far away.

“Ah, ah, ah, don’t get up,” Crowley said, beelining it for the free side of the bed. He brandished the grease-stained paper bag at Aziraphale, “Thought you might appreciate some breakfast in bed.”

“Oh, _darling_ ,” he said, taking the package from him and gasping again at the contents, “I haven’t had bougastsa in ages! Oh, thank you, my dear boy.”

Crowley propped his head up on his hand as he watched Aziraphale devour the pastries, first the Danishes, fingers sticky with jam, then finishing with his favoured bougastsa last, the filo flaking between his teeth and custard spilling out around his lips. Crowley’s eyes followed the path of Aziraphale’s tongue, the flick out to capture stray filling, missing a significant blob at the corner of his mouth. Taking the empty bag from him and tossing it onto the night-stand, Crowley shuffled closer to the blonde and swiped the custard away with his thumb. He caught Aziraphale’s eye while he sucked away the filling, noting the way his breath hitched and his pupils widened.

“Darling,” he said, catching Crowley’s hand and placing it on his chest, just over his heart in a patch of curled chest hair, “You don’t... happen to have any plans today, do you?”

“Hmm, I did have one or two ideas,” Crowley let his hand drift lower.

“Oh..? Do tell.”

The hand disappeared beneath the sheets, “How about I show you instead?”

* * *

They dozed for a bit afterwards, somewhere between awake and asleep, until a low rumbling of Aziraphale’s stomach disturbed them, “Oh, terribly sorry about that, dear, “ he blinked slowly awake, “What time is it?” 

“Mmm, who cares?” Crowley said, revelling in the relaxed sleepy atmosphere.

“But darling, I’m famished,” he said, squeezing him about the waist, “I’ve rather worked up an appetite.”

“And I’ve worked up a nap.”

“I’m not sure that makes sense grammatically.”

“You don’t make sense grammatically,” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and grinned, “Darling, please. We could go out for lunch.”

“I think it’s past lunchtime by now.”

“Is it?” he drew away from Crowley to take a peek at his alarm clock on the side table.

“Ngk, no, Angel,” Crowley whinged, rolling onto his back try to recapture his warmth, “Come back, I was so cosy.”

“Oh my- Crowley, it’s almost one!” Aziraphale exclaimed, ignoring Crowley’s pleas, “No wonder I’m so hungry, I barely had breakfast, let alone lunch,” he turned to his partner, pouting expertly at him, “Please, dearest, do let’s go for lunch.”

Crowley let out a long, deep sigh, looking up at the stippled ceiling, “Fine.”

“You darling of a man,” Aziraphale leaned forward and cupped his cheek, turning his face so he could kiss him deeply, “Mmm, what do you fancy, my dear? Since you’re being so good as to treat me.”

“Staying in bed with you?” Crowley couldn’t help but joke, “But now I think about it... I heard of a place recently you might like. It’s a bit far out, over in Camden, but it seems nice enough. Chef has a bit of a thing for Welsh cuisine.”

He needn’t tell Aziraphale that in one of the few hours they were apart he researched every possible restaurant, café, and takeaway in the London and the Greater London area in order to find places that would make Aziraphale’s face light up with that beautiful smile he loved.

And there it was on his face now, not quite as bright as when the food actually passed between his lips, but still enough joy for Crowley to bask in, “Oh, I do love Welsh food. When I visited once – oh it was many years ago now when I was working on a translation of some notes in an early copy of The Mabinogion – the charming woman I was lodging with made me the most delightful bowl of cawl. No matter how hard I tried to convince her, she simply would not part with the recipe.”

“Shock horror, seems there are actually people who can resist your pouting,” Crowley said, pushing himself to sit on the edge of the bed, “God knows I can’t.”

“I wasn’t aware I was so irresistible to you, darling,” Aziraphale said airily.

“Psht. Pull the other one, Angel. It’s not exactly a secret,” Crowley grumbled, standing and then grimacing at the stickiness still smeared on him, “Ugh, I feel disgusting. Join me in the shower?” he asked, raising his eyebrow questioningly and a hopeful smile on his lips.

Aziraphale smiled softly back, “And you say you can’t resist _me,_ my darling,” he stood and stroked his thumb across Crowley’s cheek, “Whenever you smile like that I feel like I would do anything for you.”

Crowley flushed, stuttering out syllables a bit, “Well, I- that’s. Um, good to know.”

Aziraphale kissed him, feeling the smile beneath his lips and the sweet warmth of his mouth, “Come on, my dear boy, let’s get that shower.”

* * *

Camden was only a quick drive away, but the streets were notoriously bad for parking, even worse than Soho if only because people didn’t even bother driving in central London. So while there was always a spot for the Bentley outside the bookshop, they didn’t hold out hope for finding a space outside the restaurant, and decided to park a bit away and walk in. The trouble was finding a public carpark where his beloved car wouldn’t get scratched.

“Crowley, are you sure this is allowed?” Aziraphale frowned, peering around for any road signs as they trundled down a surprisingly foliage rich-street, “That sign explicitly says welcome to London Zoo.”

“Course it is Angel,” Crowley flicked the indicator and turned into the car park, “I’ve parked here loads of times. Well, once or twice. A few years ago. Maybe a decade?”

“So very encouraging,” he said dryly.

The car rolled up to the ticket barrier behind a rattling blue Honda, and Crowley gawked at the sign, “Fuck me, £65 for a non-zoo visitor? It’s probably cheaper to just buy a zoo ticket and park.”

“It all goes to fund the zoo anyway. Consider it a charitable donation.”

“It’s not the purpose, it’s the principle behind the thing. It’s extortion!”

“I’d hardly call it that, darling. Besides, this was your idea; we could have easily parked somewhere else,” they watched in the rear-view mirror as a coach pulled up behind them, “And now it’s too late.”

Crowley turned in his seat, “Do they look too close to you? I swear if they scuff the bumper-“ The bus honked as the Honda in front drove under the barrier, scaring the shit out of Crowley, who shoved two fingers up at the driver, luckily too low down to be noticed, “Prick.”

They pulled up to the booth, Crowley winding down his window and grumbling the whole time he paid the fare. The car park was relatively empty, but he still drove to a bay at the end, far from the other cars and away from the trees.

“Could have bought a night at a hotel for that price,” he grumbled.

“Come on darling, it’s not like we couldn’t afford it,” Aziraphale said as Crowley reversed and then parked up.

Crowley shut off the engine, “It’s the principle, Angel,” he said again, getting out of the car, “They love scamming tourists like this.”

Aziraphale pushed opened his door and Crowley was already there to offer him a hand which he took gratefully, “You’re not really supposed to drive in Central London anyway. That’s what the tube is for.”

“I’d rather pay sixty five quid than get the fucking tube.”

A child ran past just then with a balloon, his mother glaring daggers in their direction.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded, straightening his waistcoat, “Stop corrupting the youth.”

“Oh, I’ve got way better ideas for that than swearing, Angel,” he grinned, sauntering side by side with Aziraphale along the pedestrian walkway shaded by trees, “Encourage them to dismantle the patriarchy, protest against racism, decriminalise prostitution... I could go on.”

“Is that really corruption?”

“Eh, goes against society, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose, but it’s hardly corruption if it’s morally sound.”

“Some people don’t think it’s morally sound.”

“Well, I think we can both agree those people are tossers.”

“Angel!” Crowley laughed delightedly.

They crossed over away from the zoo, along past Primrose Hill as Crowley followed his phone directions, not taking too much note of where they were actually walking until they took a turn and halfway up the road realised they didn’t see any restaurants, or any shops at all.

“Are you quite sure this is the way?” Aziraphale frowned, “This street looks rather residential.”

“Give me a minute- fuck, why is this so shit?” Crowley tapped furiously on his phone screen, “Why is it not over there? It should be over there!”

“It’s not over there though, darling,” Aziraphale said, “That’s a house. A rather nice four storey place- actually, does this street not look familiar to you?”

“No, it doesn’t, Aziraphale. None of this does. Not that car, not that house, not that man- oh, fuck!” Crowley hissed suddenly, trying to steer Aziraphale away, “Don’t look, don’t look!”

“What? Why?” Aziraphale said and, instead, looked around feverishly.

“Shadwell, at three o’clock,” Crowley mumbled, trying furiously to guide Aziraphale away from the man on the opposite street.

“What? But it’s only two?” Aziraphale said.

“That’s not what that means-“

“Oh, dear, he’s spotted us.”

“Shit. It’s not too late to run.” Crowley said, but Aziraphale tugged him back by his side.

“Mr Shadwell!” Aziraphale greeted with false cheer.

Shadwell looked as scruffy as ever, the same long brown coat adorned with what at first looked like army medals but were really just a mix of props from a costume shop and old good attendance medals from school. There was the yellow checked shirt too, the exact same one he wore each weekend for the Bake Off, and the same slacks too. It seemed he had brushed his hair though, and his beard looked less unkempt.

“It’s Sergeant,” Shadwell grumbled, but Aziraphale was more interested in the woman clinging to his arm. She was wearing what the blonde considered a rather charming cape-like-coat in tones of red and yellow, the colours matching perfectly with her bright orange curls. Her make-up was heavy, but it suited her, added to the eccentric aura she had going for her, bulky beaded earrings and necklaces and bracelets.

“Ah, yes, Sergeant Shadwell,” Aziraphale reluctantly corrected, “And who’s this lovely young lady?”

“Oh, young! You charmer,” the woman blushed, pleased, “I’m Marjorie, or Madame Tracy on Tuesdays, or Thursdays, or by appointment. I’m the Sergeant’s wife.”

“Jezebel,” Shadwell growled out.

“Well, common-law wife,” Marjorie said, unphased.

“She’s a harlot!”

Marjorie just smiled widely at both of them, and it wasn’t even strained, just rather blissful.

“Ah, well, lovely to meet you,” Aziraphale said, sharing a look with Crowley.

“Are you some of his witchfinder friends?” she asked.

“Um, witch-?” he decided not to delve further into that, “No, we’re on the Bake Off with him.”

Shadwell pointed a grubby finger at Aziraphale and said, “Aye, he’s the southern pansy,” he turned the finger on Crowley, “and his boytoy.”

Aziraphale and Crowley just blinked at him in disbelief, “Uh, I’m Aziraphale, and this is Crowley.”

Marjorie, however, barrelled on, “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you two. He says you’re very good.”

“Yes, um, he’s mentioned you, once or twice.”

“Oh, Mr Shadwell,” she cooed, then turned back to Crowley and Aziraphale, “He can be so sweet sometimes. He’s taking me to the zoo, you know.”

“How nice.” Aziraphale said with a strained smile.

“We’re going to see the bullfrogs. Mr Shadwell is doing a little study on the poor dears. Something about familiars.”

There was a long awkward silence.

“Right, yeah, that’s great,” Crowley piped up, “But me and Aziraphale have places to be, people to see, yeah? So, yeah, uh, bye?”

“Of course, dearies,” Marjorie smiled, “Terribly sorry to delay you, you two have a nice lunch.”

“Ah, yes, and have a lovely day at the zoo,” Aziraphale said, keeping Crowley from just straight up walking off. “Lovely to meet you, Marjorie.”

“Enjoy the frogs,” Crowley successfully dragged Aziraphale away with an awkward wave, “Bye!”

They hurried away and didn’t slow down until they were at least half a street away, and the pair were no longer in sight.

“Holy shit,” Crowley said.

“Yes, I rather agree with that sentiment.”

“I can’t believe he’s married. Or, well, whatever that arrangement is.”

“And to such a nice woman as well!”

“Yeah she seemed pretty interesting. Not sure what to make of that whole Madame Tracy thing.”

“Well, Shadwell was very adamant that she was rather promiscuous. Though I can’t tell if that was an insult or a Shadwellian description.”

“Maybe a bit of both, to be honest. Good for her really. She was definitely on some herbal tea though.”

“I’m quite sure I’ve never been like that when I have some chamomile.”

“No, Angel, I mean _herbal._ Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s on Kava. Had some of it back in the nineties at a celebration of pacific flora at Kew gardens before it was banned, and I have never been so relaxed.”

“Each to their own, I suppose,” Aziraphale shrugged, looking around, “Have you worked out where we are yet dear? I am rather famished.”

“Well, still near the zoo I guess,” he studied his phone closer and then groaned, “Damn it- ah! See, it’s still on car directions, fuck, so it’s avoided traffic and rerouted us around this random street. God damn- I hate this crappy app.”

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was studying the street closer, looking at the terraces of pink and blue and yellow fronted houses, “Ah! I have it!”

Crowley looked up, “Have what?”

“Paddington!”

“The station?”

“What? No! This street, it’s the one from Paddington? See, the colourful houses? And that’s the Brown family house.”

“Uh, who?”

Aziraphale looked at him in disbelief, “Paddington? Paddington Bear? From deepest darkest Peru? Michael Bond?”

“Angel, just saying a series of random words is not helping.”

“Crowley, you can’t tell me that you’ve never heard of Paddington Bear. The children’s books about a sweet little Peruvian bear that loves marmalade sandwiches?”

“Not ringing any bells here, Aziraphale.”

“I can’t believe you,” Aziraphale huffed, “After this we’re going back to your flat, snuggling down in front of that giant TV, and watching both of those darling Paddington movies.”

“What cruel things you demand of me, Angel,” Crowley quipped, pocketing his phone and taking his hand.

“It must be such a hardship for you, dear,” Aziraphale said, rubbing a thumb across his knuckles affectionately.

They rounded the corner onto the correct street, the sign for the restaurant outcropping from the wall a short distance away. In front of in, all along the road, was on-street parking, three of the angled bays empty.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Crowley groaned, “All that and I could have parked here?”

Aziraphale looked dubiously at the spaces, one next to a van, one sandwiched between two massive Range Rovers, and the last right in front of a signpost, “It’s probably for the best, dear. You know how vicious street parking can be. I would hate for the Bentley to get scratched.”

“Hmm, that’s true. I mean, look at that van driver’s parking. Abysmal.”

“Exactly, and it was rather a nice walk. Even with the interruption.”

They were still on time for the lunch menu at the restaurant despite it being more afternoon than not, seated at some soft high-backed chairs with a low lit candle between them. Aziraphale had generously refused to drink wine since Crowley couldn’t without driving back, and instead indulged in a fruity wild strawberry and raspberry concoction. Crowley settled for a simple glass of sparkling water, which had Aziraphale shuddering in distaste.

“I really don’t know how you can drink that, dear,” Aziraphale grimaced, “Everything, from the carbonation to the taste, is all wrong.”

He took a swig pointedly, “Mmm, refreshing.”

Aziraphale just shot him a disgusted look and continued perusing the menu.

They didn’t serve any cawl in the end, much to Aziraphale’s disappointment, but there was a wild garlic soup with a lovely Caerphilly scone that Aziraphale had greatly enjoyed, and then a tarted-up Welsh rarebit for the main. Crowley had just been satisfied with a mushroom and Parmesan risotto, and after they each had a slice of Bara brith alongside a cheeseboard and some lovely sweet chutney. 

“Darling?” Aziraphale asked, popping a grape into his mouth.

“Yes Angel?”

“We never mentioned we were having lunch.”

“Uh, what?” Crowley said, buttered Bara brith in hand.

“To Marjorie. We never told her why we were out.”

Crowley slowed his chewing, “Huh.”

“And, reasonably, it is rather late just to assume we’d not already eaten.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“And yet she knew.”

“And yet she did,” Crowley repeated.

A pause.

“Could she be..?“

“You don’t think..?

Another pause.

“No. Can’t be.”

“Na, she just guessed, is all.”

“Exactly.”

“Just a coincidence.”

Another pause.

They finished their desserts in silence, mulling it over and wondering if there were actually dots to connect or not. It’s not like witches were _real._

* * *

When Aziraphale had first started coming over to Crowley’s flat the sofa had been possibly the most uncomfortable sofa in England. Mostly because he didn’t even have a cushion on it, let alone a throw blanket, but Aziraphale had soon resolved that. The original pale patterned tartan cushion he’d bought had been outright rejected by Crowley, but he’d eventually allowed a pair of dark toned paisley cushions, a bright red fluffy one, and a white cotton novelty cushion emblazoned with an array of snakes. The blanket had come from Crowley’s own cupboard, an old thing he used in the winter to keep warm, thick and soft and a deep emerald colour, and it was this that they were snuggled under now, the end montage of Paddington playing out on the screen.

As the credits began to roll, Crowley blinked at the screen and said, “I hate to admit it, but I think that might have been the greatest movie ever made?”

“Wait until you see the second one dearest.”

“There’s no way the sequel is better. I refuse to believe it.”

“Darling, it is. It has Hugh Grant in as a- well you’ll see. Oh, but Paddington also goes to- oh I don’t want to spoil it! Let’s just watch it now.”

Crowley leaned forward to put the next movie on, luckily already in the suggested line-up.

He settled back and put his arm around his partner, readjusting the blanket while they watched the opening scene, “You know,” he said as Paddington was greeting his neighbours, “I thought this might have been a thinly veiled attempt at seduction.”

Aziraphale rolled his head on Crowley’s shoulder, “In what way?”

“You know, Netflix and chill? Shove on a movie as an excuse to sit close, feel each other up a bit, and shag.”

“Well!” Aziraphale said, affronted, “That might have worked for one of your silly spy movies, or something a little raunchier, but Paddington! I cannot bear not to give it my full attention.”

“Silly spy movies? They’re _James Bond,_ ” Crowley cried, “Wait- did you just make a pun? Was that use of ‘bear’ a pun?”

“I simply couldn’t help myself, darling,” Aziraphale snuggled closer, “Now, do shush, Paddington is talking. We can talk about canoodling later.”

“Canoodling-? Angel, you’re ridiculous,” he said, but grinned into his hair, stroking a hand down his side.

He would later concede that Paddington 2 was, indeed, even better.

* * *

Crowley reluctantly returned home that night and spent the whole of Thursday working on a painting for a client, only pausing to make coffee and to answer a few calls from Aziraphale. By midnight his shirt was even more paint splattered, and he had splats of yellow in his hair from where he’d tucked his brush away. It wasn’t an overly large canvas, but it was time consuming, and he was thankful that his client had given him a deadline in two weeks’ time so he could finalise everything. As it was, he’d already finished the background, a plush red chair, and the outline of the lovely white cat the owner had wanted memorialised.

Aziraphale had spent the time practicing churros, interspersed with frustrated calls to Crowley about how, exactly, to make churros well. He’d also finished fixing up an original first edition of Great Expectations for a client, the spine split by an unfortunate incident involving a rather excitable grandchild.

It was probably the longest time they’d spent apart since they got together, but it was oddly nice to have a little bit of time alone, knowing that the other was only a phone call away, that there was no ambiguity now as to their feelings. That this was only a temporary break, and there was something to look forward to tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

Aziraphale hummed happily at the thought, even as he tucked into bed for the second night in a row without his partner. He’d only got off the phone a few minutes ago, an hour long good-night, and Crowley’s darling voice as he told him to ‘sleep well, Angel’ was still sweet in his ears. He was lulled to sleep by the memory of it, and the lingering scent of Crowley’s aftershave on his pillow.

Friday morning saw Aziraphale rooting through his wardrobe, trying to find something just a little bit different to wear, ostensibly for himself, but truthfully wanting to look a little bit different for Crowley today. They were meeting for lunch again before the drive to Newbury He didn’t have the greatest array of outfits, mostly tones of cream and pale blue and browns, but he found a forest-green cardigan at the back of his cupboard, soft and woollen and just shy of his usual style. He kept his standard trousers and paired it with a long-sleeve cream shirt and the new red tartan bowtie he’d picked up in Edinburgh. It wasn’t the most drastic of changes, but he liked the way the richer colours looked on him. Inspecting himself in the mirror, he buttoned his cardigan, and then unbuttoned it again, ruffled his hair, straightened his bowtie, and then smoothed his curls back down again. Satisfied, he laced up his brogues, and went to wait for Crowley in the bookshop.

It didn’t take long, barely even three pages into his latest chapter of The Castle of Otranto, before the tell-tale roar of the Bentley sounded from outside the shop, the rumbling followed by the gentle slam of a car door and then the jingle of the bell above the door as Crowley strode in.

Aziraphale stood to greet him, smiling from ear to ear, “Crowley! Hello, my dear boy.”

“Hey Angel,” Crowley greeted, pressing a kiss to his lips, then flicked the fabric of his bowtie, “Oh, you’re wearing your new one.”

“You noticed!” he said delightedly.

“’Course I did. Not often you wear red. And the cardigan too, very stylish,” he tugged him in by his lapels for another kiss, “You should wear that tomorrow.”

Aziraphale looked down at himself again, “Really? It’s not to - oh, I don’t know – not too dark, or anything?”

“Na. Besides, I think you’d look good in dark colours; you certainly do when you borrow my dressing gown.”

“Oh, I’m not sure about that,” Aziraphale blushed, pulling way to collect his wallet off the table, “I rather think it washes me out.”

“Hmm, we’ll have to see about that Angel. I’ll get you in black tie one day,” Crowley said, twirling his keys around on his finger nonchalantly, “Who knows, if you’re lucky maybe I’ll wear white.”

There was the smallest of pauses where they both dared to image a scenario where such outfits were needed, whether at the altar of a church, or the front of a registry office, waiting at the end of the aisle for their partner as music swelled around them. It was only a moment, but it was enough for both their cheeks to redden, and eyes to avoid meeting lest they somehow see exactly what the other was thinking.

“Yes, well, perhaps,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, “Anyway, ah, where were we heading off to for lunch again?”

“Oh, uh, just thought we could get some sushi, if you like.”

“That would be lovely, darling,” Aziraphale said, taking his hand and headed out to the Bentley.

* * *

Even with Crowley’s help earlier in the week, Aziraphale was still rather daunted by this week’s theme for the Bake Off. His crepes and Yorkshires may be passable, but passable wasn’t good enough for the calibre of competition. He could only hope his flavours masked any batter failings.

Mixing up the batter in the amounts Crowley had suggested to use first, he then added in a generous amount of chives for a little more flavour, and was soon placing the jug to one side to settle at room temperature. He was a little put off by the fact that a lot of the bakers were cooling it in the fridge, but Crowley had insisted that room temperature was best, and so stuck to his laurels.

He poured a teaspoon of oil – forgoing the beef dripping idea only because he was going to be stuffing it with fish – into each of the divots in the tin and placed it in the oven to heat while he prepared his filling.

His eyes stung a little as he diced the onion, never quite getting the knack for avoiding it, and nose twitched at the strong smell of the garlic as he chopped it. All into the pan it went to fry for a good few minutes, then a quick heat of the risotto rice before he was pouring in the stock.

He was just setting his timer for twenty minutes as the judges came over, peering into his pan, and trying to spy on his Yorkshire batter.

“Good morning, Aziraphale,” the older one said, “So, everyone seems to have their own Yorkshire pudding spin; how are you doing it?”

“Ah, well, in all honestly Yorkshire Puddings are not something I’ve made before, and we don’t really have a family recipe like some. But a- uh, a very good friend of mine has been giving me some tips this week, and I’m using nine eggs, with 375g of flour, and then, hmm, what was it?” he leaned over to read the recipe again, “Ah, yes, 450ml of milk.”

“Interesting numbers, is that in any kind of ratio?”

“Not as such, no. I’m just following the numbers in the recipe I was gifted,” he answered hesitantly.

The judge seemed almost amused, but digressed, “Alright. And what’s your filling then?”

“I’m making a smoked salmon and lemon risotto filling, with just a few chives in the Yorkshire pudding batter itself.”

“Sounds delicious, very classic flavours. And what’s your inspiration?”

“Oh, well, my mother used to make vol-au-vents for all the church events when I was a child, and I would always try to sneak the salmon and cream cheese ones, often unsuccessfully I must add!” Aziraphale said, stirring his stock, “So my filling is inspired by those lovely little memories, combined with one of my favourite salmon dishes today. A little bit of old mixed with the new.”

“You’ve brought back so many memories,” one of the presenters said, “I used to sneak them at parties too. That and the arctic roll.”

“Arctic roll, yes! With raspberry sauce! Oh, I haven’t had any in years.”

“I’m starting a petition now; ‘Get Arctic Roll on the Bake Off’,” the other presenter joked.

“I’d gladly sign it,” Aziraphale smiled.

“We’ve got one!” they said, pointing enthusiastically as they departed from the bench.

Smiling to himself, Aziraphale left the risotto to simmer while he pulled out the tray of now practically spitting oil and set to work pouring out the batter. He didn’t really have much of a method to make each one even but tried to scoop the same number of spoonful’s in each hole quickly so as not to let the oil cool too much. He was just sliding it into the oven alongside another tray of oil to be heated, the heat of the oven flushing his cheeks, when the timer went off for his risotto.

Hurrying over so it didn’t burn, he tipping in half of the remaining stock and kept on stirring, trying to resist watching his Yorkshire’s cooking lest they follow the trend of a watched pot never boils. Once the stock was absorbed, he finally poured the last bit in, drawing in a deep breathe to take in the lovely aromas coming from the pan.

Checking on the Yorkshire puddings, he frowned at the four from the left side of the first batch that hadn’t risen right but pulled them from the oven anyway. He still had the other twelve to bake though, so decided to just get them into the oven and make a little more batter in case he had time to make more; the longer rest would be good for the rise anyway. As it was, the wells in the bottom of the remaining eight Yorkshires were deep enough to hold his filling, and they were just as crispy as he liked them, if a little uneven. Taking out the second batch of hot oil, he repeated his amateur pouring method with last of the original batter and, mostly happy, put them on the same shelf as the other lot had been.

He had little to do now until both his dishes cooked, the risotto just needing to simmer to become creamy and cook the rice, and so he sat back with a relieved sigh and surveyed the room.

Crowley was sitting on the floor when he looked over, one knee propped up under his chin as he studiously watched the Yorkshires rise. As usual he was doing something a little more complex, making a Toad-In-The-Hole style breakfast Yorkshire, with the sausage and bacon in the batter in the bottom and, as he was watching cook now, a whole egg baked through on the top afterwards. There were some lovely juicy tomatoes on his bench he planned to bake as a sort of garnish, but after the last time he’d used his own produce he opted for some from the farmers market.

The judges and presenters walked over then, peering over at him on the floor. Any normal baker would have stood up, but if Crowley was anything he was fastidious about his bakes, and he would not be disrupted in the middle of something so vital as watching his eggs cook to perfection.

“Uh, hello down there Crowley,” a judge said pointedly.

Crowley seemed to keep his gaze on the oven, “I would stand but,” he gestured, “eggs.”

“Alright...”

There was a pause, as if they still expected him to move, then, “So, what exactly are you making for us?”

“Breakfast Yorkshires. Bacon, sausage, egg,” he nodded up at the bench, “tomatoes.”

“Always love a Full English,” the presenter said, picking up a tomato and examining it just for something to do, “No black pudding?”

Aziraphale could picture Crowley’s shudder, the same one he had when Aziraphale had eaten a piece with relish in front of him, “Even I draw the line at black pudding.”

They watched him a little longer, then asked, “So do you have a special family recipe?”

“Oh god no. Just an amalgamation of recipes I found online, really. Three eggs, 125g flour, about 150ml of milk, that makes eight Yorkshires.”

“Interesting. Similar to a few other people’s,” the judge said, eyes drifting over to Aziraphale knowingly.

Crowley merely hummed, eyes still locked on his bake. Figuring they wouldn’t get much more out of him, the judges finally left him to it.

* * *

Crowley did just as well as Aziraphale thought he would, technically perfect Yorkshires with only one egg yolk on top that was burst. Naturally the judges loved them, even giving him a coveted handshake.

It wasn’t the worst outcome of the signature for Aziraphale – that award would go to Marie and her accidental blinis – but it didn’t exactly go well; his Yorkshires were mostly risen but uneven and, much to his eternal mortification, his rice was undercooked. Even his flavour was a little off today, too much lemon and too little actual smoked salmon flavour.

It had Aziraphale going into the technical a bit off kilter, which delved into panic mode once he saw the task. Pancakes. Not just pancakes, no, but heart-shaped lace pancakes, twelve of them intricately designed and drawn. And that wasn’t all. They had one hour. _One._ And a single practice pancake. Aziraphale mentally packed his bags already.

The judges hint did not help; practice the pattern? It was easy to draw with a pen, but anyone who has ever piped anything knows it’s not as simple as all that.

He whipped up some batter, but he couldn’t quite remember if it was 300ml of milk or 200ml, or if it was 2 eggs to 2 egg yolks, or how many his recipe actually made. Why was sugar on the ingredients list? He was sure sugar never featured on Crowley’s recipe. And, oh god, why was it so runny?

Drawing the heart out on paper gave him a little bit of confidence, the pattern looking rather good if he said so himself, reminiscent of a doily he had back at the shop. Aziraphale took a deep breath and took his bottled batter in hand, then began to draw in the medium heat pan.

It was a disaster.

It all flowed into one giant blob, an almost formless shape that was barely a heart, let alone the intricate details he’d drawn. Oh god, and this was his only practice, the next twelve had to be perfect, but how could he do that now? It was his final week, he could just feel it.

“Oh, blast,” Aziraphale muttered quietly to himself, but while Crowley didn’t catch the words he could see how harried his angel looked, flour in his hair and downturned eyes.

“Angel?” he whispered to him, “You alright over there?”

Giving up all pretence of not talking during the technical, Aziraphale turned to him, hands wringing in worry, “I’m rather not, actually. My batter is- and well my pattern- and... oh, Crowley, it’s all gone wrong.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Crowley soothed, leaving his bench and rubbing Aziraphale’s arms to calm him down, “You’ve done your practice one, right?”

“Yes but it was terrible, darling, and you know my signature was awful, and my churros have never quite turned out right in practice, and-“

“Shh, it’s alright,” he said again, holding him a moment longer before moving to inspect Aziraphale’s batter, “It’s a little runny, but if you add just a bit more flour it’ll be the right consistency,” he grabbed the recipe card and the pen he always kept in his apron and drew a pattern onto it. He drew one large heart, and then a series of large simple swirls on the inside, completing it with a semi-circle border, “Ok, practice drawing that design with the pen holding it like the bottle, get into the flow of it, then when you’re ready do exactly the same with the batter, alright?”

“Oh, my darling, I don’t know if I can-“

“Yes you can, Angel. You can.” Crowley said firmly, “It’s ok, you’re doing well. Don’t let one little slip up get to you, yeah? I believe in you.”

Aziraphale wiped his damp eye and nodded weakly, then more resolutely, “I can. I _can._ Thank you, my dear boy.”

Crowley smiled at him and headed back to his bench.

The next pancake he made with Crowley’s design was much better, and the next too, even if they didn’t quite match. Before long he had twelve reasonable looking pancakes, only a little uneven and a little overbaked, and was feeling a lot less hopeless.

He came in fifth place, apparently lacking in sweetness as well as being clumsy, but at least he wasn’t Shadwell in last, who had cranked his hob up to full heat and almost cremated at least ten of his pancakes. Warlock had been in a similar boat to Aziraphale, what with Crowley sneaking over to at a bit of milk to his too thick batter with a conspiratorial wink but had just been pipped to the post in sixth place. It was a close battle to the top, Adam just dropping into second place because Crowley’s design was deemed a little nicer by the judges.

Aziraphale was chatting with Crowley in the green room while they waited for interviews when one of the producers got their attention, frowning at them with a clipboard in their hands.

“Crowley, Aziraphale, my office, now,” they said, not waiting for a response before marching off in the direction of the house. They looked at one another with varying degrees of concern and then followed.

The was only one chair in front of the makeshift desk and Crowley let Aziraphale sit while he stood against the wall, arms crossed.

“Well,” Crowley drawled, “What is it?”

“What is it?” the producer parroted, “What the hell was that, back there?”

“Care to elaborate?”

“You not only conferred with Aziraphale during the technical, but you actively helped him and ensured he didn’t come in last place.”

“Yeah, and?” Crowley continued his defensive tone, “It might be a competition but it’s not a crime to help someone.”

“It’s not that you helped someone, it’s that you helped _him,_ ” the producer yelled, “Look, outside of this tent I don’t care what you do unless it’s illegal. I do not care what relationships you have with other contestants, or with the presenters, or even with the judges, I don’t care if you two are just good friends or if you actually are together, but I do care when that relationship affects what goes on in the tent!” they delineated, “You both signed a contract about the rules of this show, including the rules about fraternizing during rounds, and especially during the technical bake.”

“Ha, fraternizing?” Crowley scoffed over Aziraphale’s deafening silence, “I drew him a pretty picture on his recipe card.”

“No, you improved his batter and then helped him to design a key aspect of the challenge,” the producer exclaimed, “And as I said, it was also the fact that it was Aziraphale you helped, your boyfriend-”

“Partner,” Aziraphale corrected quietly, speaking for the first time since he’d been called into the office.

The producer looked a little caught off guard by his interruption but cleared their throat and continued on a little more calmly, “Right, partner. Sorry. Look, all I’m saying is that Crowley, you can’t let your private life affect the show. You could have helped anyone in that tent, you could have helped... I don’t know, Marie, her pattern was abysmal, or Shadwell, he came last. But the fact is that you didn’t, you helped your partner. And even if it’s the natural thing to do in a relationship, it is not something you can do in a televised competition environment. Can you imagine the public outcry when this airs? If, as it’s looking right now, someone other than Aziraphale leaves tomorrow? It won’t matter if his signature was better than the loser, or if his showstopper was incredible, it will always, _always,_ be tainted by what I’m sure many people would see as cheating.”

“I did help someone else; did not miss me improving Warlock’s batter? Where’s his tribunal?” Crowley frowned, annoyed that he couldn’t dispute some of their latter points, “Besides, it’s already done now, anyway,” he said, “What’s your plan for that? Send Aziraphale home?”

The producer rubbed her eyes and sighed, “No, we won’t. Unless, of course, he doesn’t do well tomorrow – and no, that was not a vague threat, Crowley! We will be editing your input down, probably not show Aziraphale or Warlock struggling at all, and limit the showing of any interactions between you.”

“Oh sure, you don’t want to try and capitalise on the first ‘Bake-Off Romance’?” Crowley grumbled.

“Crowley please,” Aziraphale said softly, then turned to the producer, “I really am terribly sorry for today; I should never have accepted his help. I promise it shan’t happen again. But, if I may, I do believe Crowley has raised a genuine concern. While we are, ahem, in a relationship, and we did a poor job of concealing it today, we would really rather keep it out of any dramatization, or, or...”

“Or have it exploited,” Crowley finished for him.

“Precisely,” Aziraphale replied.

The producer sat back in her seat, “Alright, I can do that, as long as you both keep your relationship out of the tent. This is not a blanket permission to act all lovey-dovey and expect us to edit it all out. If you try, we can accommodate.”

“Certainly,” Aziraphale smiled, “And if there is anything we wish to have edited out? A stray pet name, or conversation, or touch?”

“We can discuss it, of course.”

“Would you contract it?” Crowley asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Could we get these new terms in writing?”

“Um, I’m sure we can have the legal team draw something up.”

“Fine, we’ll accept as long as we have that contract to sign.”

They were excused after the producer arranged for them to meet the next afternoon, already typing in the number for their lawyer before Aziraphale and Crowley were even out of the door.

They both breathed a sigh of relief once they were outside, quickly heading over to the waiting minibus.

“I’m glad you were in there with me, darling, I never would have thought to ask for a contract.” Aziraphale broke the silence.

“Comes with the freelance territory really. Once you’ve been screwed over on pay by a company who didn’t keep their promises you get really familiar with employment law and the necessity of contracts.”

“And... you’re not mad? That I wish our relationship to remain quiet?”

“Wha- of course not, Angel!” Crowley smiled encouragingly, “I understand. Besides, they were right; no matter what the truth is, people will always read further into things and taint our actual achievements.”

“Thank you. And not just for understanding, but for helping me in the tent too. And for just... everything really. You’re wonderful.”

“Psht, I- it’s really nothing,” Crowley denied, shoulders curling in a bit, “My job really. As your partner.”

“Hmm, I quite think it’s because you’d do all those things for me that you’re my partner, rather than the other way round,” Aziraphale said as they approached the bus, gesturing out an arm, “After you dear.”

Crowley barely had a chance to sit down before Warlock was practically pouncing on him, “Crowley! They can’t kick you out; me and Adam have agreed, see, that if you go we go. I mean, you were only helping, how does that benefit _you?_ And if it’s Aziraphale too then we’ll do the same, we swear-“

“Hey, hey, calm down Warlock, we’re not going anywhere,” he said, placing his hands calmingly on Warlock’s shoulders as Aziraphale sat down beside Adam instead, “We just got a bit of a slap on the wrist is all. No more pancake assistance from me.”

The wind went out of his sails at the news, “Oh, oh well then. That’s fine.”

Crowley buffed his cheek with the back of his hand, “You almost sounded worried there.”

“Ha! Worried? Me? Na, it was about injustice.”

“Ah, of course,” Crowley nodded solemnly.

* * *

Aziraphale’s face was flushed, arm aching as he beat at the churro batter in the saucepan, the smell of oil from the deep fat fryer permeating the room. It was a little daunting for Aziraphale who was only used to a deep pan filled with oil, but he supposed it couldn’t be too different.

Throughout the bake he tried his best not to look at Crowley so as not to take liberties with the producers generous offer. It was tricky at first, the temptation even stronger than usual now that he was limited in drinking in his fill, but soon he was too busy concentrating on piping out the thirty-six churros to go into the freezer to chance a look.

His first attempt at frying a churro was burnt on the outside and uncooked on the inside, but with an adjustment of the temperature of the oil, he was soon making rather a decent go of it, it he did say so himself.

They weren’t the most evenly cooked, but he had nothing to worry about in the end; the judges loved his pistachio filling and white chocolate dip, and after the worry of the day before it was rather anticlimactic. There was still the small amount of anxiety in him as the presenters revealed star baker – Warlock with some extraordinary strawberry cream churros – and who would go home, but he wasn’t the nervous wreck he’d thought he would be.

“Bakers, I have the sad job again,” the presenter said, “One of you, unfortunately, has to go home,” they looked around forlornly at the bakers, “This week, the baker going home is... Marie.”

It wasn’t a surprise; her Yorkshires had been the worst, and while her technical was ok, her churros were questionable at best. They had not only been massively impregnated by the oil and crispy as anything, but they were fennel flavoured and not technically sweet at all. Still, the thought of such a key player as Marie leaving was a shock to everyone.

Aziraphale hugged her tight, and while the goodbye was often for the cameras with the real one later, today poured all his feelings into it, knowing that they would miss each other with their meeting later. Marie was tearing up a bit too, which made him tear up, but she kept reassuring everyone that she knew it was her after the nightmare of a week she had. Crowley patted her on the shoulder and received a not unwelcome kiss on the cheek in return, and together he and Aziraphale waved her and the other bakers goodbye.

“I always get so caught up in not leaving myself that I forget that one of my friends has to,” Aziraphale sniffed.

Crowley squeezed him around his waist, “It’s alright, Angel. We’ll go out for drinks again soon, I’m sure.”

“I hope so, darling, it was so lovely last time,” Aziraphale smiled gently. He looked down at his pocket watch and sighed, “I suppose we should head inside. Hopefully we only have to sign a few things and it won’t take long.”

It did take long.

The company lawyer had drawn up the contract already, and insisted on going through it section by section, all fifteen pages of detailed scenarios of every eventuality. Aziraphale tried to stay focused on what he was saying, but so much of it seemed to be irrelevant technicalities and legal jargon it was making his head spin. Finally, after at least an hour and a half, they hastily agreed to the terms and signed the contract, their signatures in stark contrast to each other at the bottom of the page.

It wasn’t anything too complex, just what they’d already agreed to. Essentially they agreed to remain impartial in regards to the other competitors, and while some verbal assistance or physical assistance with plating was permitted on non-technical bakes, they were not afforded any kind of favouritism based on personal relationships. In turn, the producers agreed to not make their relationship the focus of any episode, and not linger on any personal exchanges in order to increase viewership for the duration of the show. They debated a little about the clause regarding after the show, with An Extra Slice and the final baker update not included in the duration, but eventually Aziraphale and Crowley agreed that some limited details of their relationship could be mentioned at this stage.

It was an exhausting process, and by the time they returned to the hotel – after getting a lift back to the hotel from a rather lovely cameraman who had been filming pick-up location shots – they were just ready to go to bed. It was hardly late for them, just past eight, but after a six am wake-up and a whole day of baking and interviews and their legal meeting, it was difficult for Aziraphale not to feel the pull of sleep, and he knew Crowley was feeling the same, even if he tried to hide it. By mutual unspoken agreement, Crowley headed over to the reception desk at the hotel and wearily paid for one more night – in just the one room this time – for the both of them.

They undressed as soon as they were in the room, and neither could be bothered with pyjamas, instead choosing to just crawl into bed naked next to each other.

Aziraphale’s cheek was squished against Crowley’s pec, and he sighed happily, “Mmm, this is nice.”

“It is,” Crowley stoked a hand down his back, “Maybe we could stay over more often on the Sunday night. It’s not as if we have anything to do tomorrow.”

“Well, I should make a go of opening the bookshop, really.”

“Eh, you don’t want to sell anything anyway.”

“Yes, but sometimes people do come in for other things.”

Crowley huffed, “Like what?”

“Repairs, donations, directions.”

“What an extensive array of activities.”

“Believe it or not, but sometimes this attractive redheaded man waltzes in, too. He’s a terrible flirt, you know.”

“Sounds devilishly handsome. I’m sure he’d rather you close the shop and spend the day with him.”

“Hmm, maybe. I’ll have to ask him when I see him next.”

Crowley pinched his arse lightly, smirking at his yelp, “Cheeky.”

Aziraphale was too tired to do anything more than chide him with a pouted, “Crowley!”, and soon they both slipped into a comfortable sleep in each other’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking at Welsh cuisine just for a throwaway line and found a recipe titled ‘Michael Sheen’s traditional Welsh cawl’ and how could I not feature it?? 
> 
> I like to think that Crowley’s favourite drink is red wine, obviously, but then the next most demonic drinks are definitely tomato juice and sparkling water. 
> 
> The telling off from the producers might seem a bit over the top, but it’s the set up for a bit of conflict I have planed – and is akin to Crowley rescuing Aziraphale from the Bastille.... sort of. Of course I love fluff, but sometimes you have to have a bit of jeopardy too 
> 
> You might have noticed that I have not had them use the magic L word yet – basically our boys are repressed. For Crowley, his family literally never said I love you, and in his twenties and thirties he tried to use it extensively, almost frivolously, which sometimes came back to bite him when he moved too fast and said it way too soon. Now he’s much more cautious, especially because he doesn’t want to fuck it up with Aziraphale. Now Aziraphale, he grew up with the word love, but it was always God loves you, (or God will not love you later on). After his bad experience of coming out, he has always been cautious and reserved with emotions, and has never told anyone he loves them, even if he has felt it.


End file.
